Tuesday's Child
by Catherine Maya
Summary: Some emotional therapy for the writer. An expansion of Though Lovers Be Lost.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Reader,

I have always been very angry at the episode 'Though Lovers Be Lost', obviously. But, my biggest complaint about it wasn't the ending. It was what we didn't see. To me, it was always implied that Catherine was put in that room, and there she waited, like some princess in a tower, until Vincent came to rescue her. Well, I just can't swallow that. Catherine Chandler was always a fighter. Yes, she depended on him, but she didn't just give up until Vincent got there. Catherine was a lot stronger and tougher than many of the other characters ever gave her credit for, including Vincent.

So, here's my little therapy story. Just something I can look at and say, 'at least she fought! She didn't just stand there and take it.' I am following most of the details of the episode with minor changes here and there. I've given Catherine a bathroom in her room, because, really, they're going to deny a pregnant woman an easy-access bathroom? I don't think so. I've also taken away the desk and chair; why was it there in the first place? I took a few ideas that others have used in similar short stories, and incorporated and expounded on them; like Catherine's nickname for the baby, and bringing the crystal necklace into play; so, if you recognize something from your own story, thank you so much for the inspiration! I've also used Linda Hamilton's birth-date for Catherine; I think it's fitting, and it works suprisingly well!; and the original air-dates of The Rest Is Silence and Though Lovers Be Lost to create a timeline. I am sticking to the events that are laid out in the episode, hopefully I've given some explanation as to why Catherine seems like such a damsel-in-distress, and answered a few of the questionable happenings within the episode (how DID she make it to the roof so quickly when it seemed like she passed out in the chair?).

Many thanks, and I welcome reviews,

Catherine Maya

P.S

There will be an Alternate Ending chapter, so never fear SND-ers, the original ending won't be all you get.

* * *

Tuesday's Child

"**Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. **

**Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
Because their words had forked no lightning they  
Do not go gentle into that good night. **

**Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright  
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. **

**Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,  
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,  
Do not go gentle into that good night." **

The first was her vision. It was blurry, heavy even, as if everything from her forehead and beyond was melting, sliding along her numb face and beyond her grasp. She fought it, shaking her head, wanting desperately to wipe it away, but she couldn't move her wrists. Her eyes lolled, her neck rolling, to try to find what was impeding her, but all that greeted her vision was that dripping run of colors.

Sounds were distant, as if an echo, or through some sort of sound barrier. No words, just halting sounds of different timbres. They seemed to float by her, tangible notes passing so close that she could reach out and touch them if only she could move her wrists. Again, she fought her confines with the small amount of strength that she could muster, but still she couldn't move.

And then, a sound unlike anything she'd heard before; deep, primal, and even further away than others. She wasn't even sure she had heard it except for some instinctive lurch, deep in the pit of her stomach. Some of the other sounds stopped, others grew more rapid, urgent, and closer. There was a click, and then her wrists were free. But still, those strange sounds persisted through all, so distant and yet so clear, as if she wasn't hearing it at all. As if she were only imagining it; only imagining the sudden pounding in her chest; only imagining the twisting in her stomach and the shivers that ran through her.

She was pulled upward and she tried to support her own weight, but her knees just refused to hold her, and she fell into the strong arms that supported her. She forced her gaze to drift upward, in search of a face, a name, anything that made sense. Nothing was solid, all of the colors ran together; swirling, dripping blacks, and creams, and whites, some silver, and harsh, blinding artificial light. She searched for gold; her heart ached for those soft tones of brown and gold. Nothing, nowhere.

She knew she was moving, though she couldn't feel her feet, or her legs even, but she knew that the lights were flashing and she could feel the jostling of her upper body. There was wailing, a siren maybe, but still those primal sounds grew stronger and truer as the eternal seconds passed.

Cold, night air blasted the sensitive skin of her face. Everything prickled and bit at her nerves, the twisting in her stomach making her want to vomit. She blinked hard against the pain and nausea, and her head pounded with that constant sound in her ears. In an instant, there was a flash of clarity, and her own name was suddenly whispered in her ear in that sweet rasp that she knew so well.

Completely on instinct, her head came up and she inhaled deeply, an odd peace passing through her. "Vincent?" she whispered back.

There was a hand on her head and she was being pushed, passed from hand-to-hand, one more forceful, the next soft but sure. She fell into the seat, her body going limp, every muscle refusing to budge, all of her weight collapsing involuntarily against the other occupant beside her.

It was as if that spark, that moment of clarity, had exhausted any strength she may have had. In some far away land; there was the crashing of glass and the primal sound one last time before her neck gave out and the world went black.

* * *

Haze again, she wanted to groan her frustration, but no sound came out. At least she had regained the feeling in her body; she was curled in half-fetal position, her arms around her waist. She was cushioned by the softest mattress she had felt in days. Had it been days? Weeks? It could have been years for all she knew. The voices were distant, but they were voices now, not just sounds, and they were coming closer and clearer with each passing word.

"She's coming to."

"Good. How long until I can speak to her, doctor?"

"Right now, if you'd like, though I don't know how comprehensive her responses will be. She'll be very disoriented for a few hours."

"Even better. Thank you."

There was an ache in her belly, a sickness trying to well-up. She squirmed, her arms snaking tighter around herself. "Vincent," she whined, uncomfortably. She groaned in protest, and suddenly felt sure that she would vomit. Instead, she only coughed; her throat so dry that the force of air was like knives.

"What is it?"

The tone of his voice seemed to glide on the air, soothing and terrifying all at once. He was close to her, she could feel his breath on her skin, and yet she still couldn't see his face. Everything was a blur and the features of his face would only blend together, then separate and melt away. "A hospital?" she asked, more like a plea.

"Tell me… does it follow you?" his voice glided.

Nothing made sense. She moaned and curled deeper, her arms unwrapping, her hands coming to her face and rubbing as vigorously as she could. When she pulled them away, her vision shifted, blurring and clearing, and back again. But, that moment of clarity was enough to take in the visage before her and faces of the familiar guards behind him. "No," she groaned, her head reeling and her body tucking deeper. "No, no, please…"

"I can give her a stimulant," a reluctant voice emerged. "Just enough to make her a little more lucid."

"No, doctor. No more drugs," the voice glided.

"She'll go through a difficult detox for about 48 hours if we just leave her now."

"How long until we know if it's done any damage to the child?"

She curled deeper, holding her abdomen, as if she had any control over the protection of that precious little life anymore.

"A miscarriage should be seen within the next 48 hours as well, if that's the case. Any further damage won't be found until much farther into the fetal development, or birth."

"What is it…?" his voice was close again and she knew he was talking to her again. "What is it to have such power inside you?"

The statement hit her harder than anything she might have expected. For a moment, her mind raced with curiosity and anxiety. Not only did he know about her condition, but somehow he knew exactly how it felt. How did he know that, for these few lucid days that she could remember, the knowledge of her condition had made her run the gambit of emotion, from pure terror of the microscopic life, to pure invincibility in the face of anyone who threatened it? There truly was such power within her womb that the simple thought of it made her breath quicken and every nerve shiver.

She raised her eyes to the cream and black haze of her interrogator, and prayed that all her contempt and loathing was being projected in her face. His breath stopped for a moment, and then she felt and heard him move away from her swiftly.

"No one touches her, handles her, or even breathes on her until she's regained her strength. She receives food, and that is all. Doctor, your services will be required elsewhere for the time being," his voice grew distant and the sounds of the room began to hush. "You can observe her progress between the work that I have for you."

She stretched one leg outward as she heard the click of the door and the hitch of a lock. Her ribs ached and the memory of the injury came back quickly. She fought the instinct to be thankful to her captor for prohibiting the men to touch her. She didn't remember all of what she'd endured, but the little she could recall; the beatings, the humiliations, the taste of cotton in her mouth as a needle pricked at her arm; it made her nauseous just to think about it.

The voices beyond the door were gone. She coughed again, something of a dry heave trying to force the nil contents of her stomach out of her body. No! She swallowed the next heave that quaked in her. Any nutrients left in her were for the babe. Nothing would leave her body until she was given the food that the gliding voice had promised.

Her eyes were growing heavier, no matter how she fought for consciousness. Her body shivered hard, and she curled back in tight, her knees protecting her abdomen, and her head turned into the dark shadows that her body created. She allowed her eyes to close, the stark white blur replaced by the clear, beautiful sight of flickering candlelight off of dark rock.


	2. Chapter 2

Things had become much clearer over the last few days. There was a lot of sleeping at first; sleeping and eating. The food was there, as promised, three times a day, placed on her nightstand, first by a guard, and more recently by a nurse. For a day or so, the food that looked truly appetizing, tasted like nothing but mud, but she refused to allow any of it to come back up.

"I know it tastes awful," she soothed the little life inside her without ever saying a word aloud. "But we have to eat, my sweet. Don't push it away."

And then sleep would claim her again.

Eventually, the drugs worked out of her system enough that she was able to stay awake for hours at a time and the taste of the food, that never changed, began improving significantly.

The exploration of her room had been necessary within the first day of her imprisonment; a bed, a nightstand with a clock, and a lamp. The lamp was made of plastic; no glass that she could break into shards and possibly use as a weapon. The same was true of all of the dishes and utensils that they gave her; all plastic. From the center of her bed, the left wall held the door to the rest of the building; the source of the comings and goings. The right wall held the door to the tiny bathroom. Within, she found a toilet, a sink, a washcloth and a bar of soap. This was all the hygiene they allowed her. The greatest despair, however, was the day it occurred to her to use the pipes under the sink to send a message. She had flung herself into the bathroom, her heart soaring with the thought of freedom, and Vincent. That light heart sank just as quickly when she discovered that all of the pipes had been encased in a welded steel box, bolted to the wall. She checked the toilet pipes; same. They knew that she had somehow contacted someone through the pipes in the previous building. Unyielding hopelessness coursed through her now at the mere sight of those awful boxes.

The wall facing her bed held her only comfort. It was all window, from the ceiling to her waist, with full length, white blinds to draw if she wished, but she'd never dream of it. It occurred to her that this was a comfort _and_ a torture from her captor. She was allowed the window to look out on the world… a world that she could never touch. It was always just beyond her fingertips. That big, beautiful window was a constant reminder that no matter how hard she pounded, no matter how loud she screamed, the world she observed would never know that she was there. She pushed the notion aside, determined to have some semblance of joy in the miserable, stark room.

Pressed against the window, she took the strength and lucidity of the moment to daydream. She stared up at the impossibly blue and cloudless sky, her hand immediately going to the glass, as if she could reach right through and hold it. The scent of melting candlewax filled her senses suddenly, and a presence moved close as her eyes drifted closed, and she breathed in the rock dust and slight smell of leather. He wrapped his huge and powerful arms around her from behind, his massive hands set against her abdomen, warmth suddenly spreading there. She opened her eyes, gazing up at the perfect morning sky they were sharing. She swore it was the exact shade of his eyes, and she turned to confirm her theory.

Nothing. Only the infuriating white wall greeted her. The warmth that had grown at her abdomen, twisted suddenly. She bolted for the bathroom, falling to the floor, her chest hitting the porcelain of the toilet hard, forcing the sickness up and out of her. She didn't try to stop it this time. She just let it come, wave after wave.

Twenty minutes later, on shaking legs, she cupped water from the sink and washed the putrid taste from her mouth. In the doorway, she stopped. The window beckoned to her, but her heart balked. The dream had been so beautiful and the reality had been too shattering. Not again, not today at least. Her gaze fell to the nightstand where her tray of breakfast still sat, hardly picked at. The thought of food in her mouth made the nausea pass over her again.

Without much recourse, she sank to the floor, her back against one side of the doorway, her feet pressed against the other. She hugged her knees close, one hand falling between to rub her stomach.

"Well," she whispered softly, "I suppose that's a good sign. You're still making me sick even after all we've been through." She smirked half-heartedly, "They don't understand. They can't hurt you. You're much too strong for them… like your father." Her gaze drifted away, heavy and labored. A deep, cleansing breath and she smiled back down at herself. "That's your father's cue to tell you that you're much too stubborn, like your mother." She giggled to herself, working her hardest to not let it turn to tears.

The lock sounded and the door clicked as it was pushed open slowly. She relaxed when the Asian nurse entered and picked up the tray of food, but she grew uncomfortable when the nurse didn't leave. She just stood there and stared at the woman crumpled in the doorway of the bathroom.

And then the door was pushed open further. The man who entered was tall with a pointed face. He had the look of constantly pursing his lips, and his eyes seemed to tear right through her body. His gaze never left her as he instructed the staring nurse to leave them alone. The door clicked closed (no lock, she noted) and the man took a step toward her, playing with the large ring on his third finger. She shrank under his gaze, and as soon as he spoke, she recognized him from the first day in the sterile room.

"Catherine Chandler; age, 33. Born September 26th, 1956; a Virgo on the Libra cusp. Graduated third in her class from Radcliffe, majoring in law. Do you ever think about the law; the contradictions and the hypocritical restrictions?"

She didn't move.

"At age 31, Catherine Chandler went missing. And, when she was finally found, she had no explanation for where she had been. Was it like stepping into a storybook?" He crept closer. "To be in its presence, day and night? Was it something out of a book from childhood?"

Her mouth gaped open, but no answer escaped, though she doubted he was looking for one.

"Have you watched? The killings?" He seemed to revel in her sharp downward gaze and her attempt to keep her face stone. "They're magnificent. Like a ballet that never seems to end." She winced at his words. "But, you've done more than watch," he realized slowly, his words washing over her like a sweet and terrible ballad. "Haven't you? You know what that is. You know that incredible power. You've felt it; in your hands, on top of you…" he tilted his head, watching her mind reel with his words, "inside you." She shuddered and turned away.

"There is nothing quite like the passion of a lover. It fills the air. It makes the breeze warm. A person can spot it from miles away… even if they've never known the sensation. The night in the warehouse, when it came for you," she cast nervous glances at his feet, "I could see it, in its eyes. I have never loved a woman, carnal lust never being a factor. I have always known that there is a difference between the two. But, I can't say that I have seen it, until I saw the passion in its eyes for you." He suddenly backed away, never ceasing his twisting of the ring. "Tell me about it." He leaned against the far wall and watched her. "What is it? Where did it come from?"

She wasn't sure if he meant the lover, or the love itself. Either way, she had no answer.

"How did it find you that night?"

She looked away, releasing a heavy breath.

"Does it stalk you? Randomly find you in parks and dark alleyways and slack its lust on you in the shadow of the night?" His nostrils flared in excitement when she ground her teeth and set her jaw tight. "And do you enjoy it? Does its primal power give you pleasure?" Her gaze dropped for a moment and then fixed on him, hard and unyielding. "Why do we hunt those we can never have? What is our desired effect? Do we think our prey will simply fall at our feet and beg to be devoured one day?" His eyes grew frosty and his gaze burrowed through her. "And what would become of the hunter the day that his eternal conquest gives herself to him? What becomes of the prey? That is where the fairytale ends, isn't it? But, what of the hunter and the prey when the binding is closed again? What defines 'happily ever after'? Is it the marriage bed? Is it the riches, not measured in gold? Is it a child?"

She pulled into herself tighter, her arms clinging protectively to her abdomen.

He grinned, watching her carefully. "So that's it, then? Your story, your everything, comes down to what's growing in that strangely vulnerable place. It begs the question; what if I were to take it? What happens then to the hunter and the prey?"

She shook, her whole body, from the crown-top to the ends of her toes, with utter terror and complete loathing. She licked her lips, and swallowed hard. Her voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper, but she made sure he heard her. "He'll find you. No matter what you do to us, he'll find you, and then you'll have your answer." Another swallow for courage. "But you won't have much time to wax philosophical about it."

He smirked, laughing shortly. "So… the cat does have claws."

She fought the urge to hiss at him.

"He," the word drifted from his lips, long and drawn out, as if floating on water. "He," he sounded as if he were testing the word, judging the sound of it. "He. So… it thinks it's a man. All right then… 'He'." He tiled his head and studied her, "Tell me where he lives. How does he survive?"

She sneered and shifted away, rolling her eyes.

"What do you find so amusing?" his tone flowed softly. "Tell me."

She breathed, unsure of whether or not she wanted to answer him. But, her temper won over and her eyes fixed on him, with a smirk on her face. "You think you're the first. You think you're the only one who has ever caught us, discovered us? You're sadly mistaken. You are not the first, not by a long shot. I have been kidnapped, questioned, tortured, and even killed, by men a thousand times more threatening than you. Don't, for a moment, think that you can do anything more to me than any of those men haven't already done. This…" her voice was beginning to rise into a passion that she couldn't and wouldn't stop, "this is my life. I _breathe_ the fear and the hatred; I'm faced with it every day. But, every day we grow stronger, and I love him more dearly than I think my heart can contain. Don't _ever_ make the mistake of thinking that you're the first."

He watched her, her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide, the grit of her teeth, and the ever-present smirk on her full lips. "I may not be the first, little prey," his eyes were cold in her glowering face. "But I may just be your last." He watched with satisfaction as her pulse quickened, her lips separated, and the smirk fell away. "Oooh," he breathed, "and so it is that false superiority is stripped away." He moved away, sliding his back along the wall until he reached the doorknob. "Felines are fiercely protective of their young. One could marvel forever about the similarities between humans and felines when it comes to their children. But, contrary to what the mother and father may believe, the kitten can be taken from its mother's milk as soon as it escapes the womb; as long as it is properly cared for, of course. And after some time, neither the kitten, nor its parents know the difference. It's as if that bond of breeding never even existed. It's curious, just how similar felines and humans are." His hand was turning the doorknob as she rose unsteadily to her feet, her hands bracing her body on the doorframe. She shook her head, her eyes wide while his words cut through her heart like knives. "It was a pleasure to meet you," he whispered sincerely, that sinister purse of his lips etching itself deeper as he pulled the door open.

"No!" she suddenly cried out, pulling strength from some unknown place, and simply bolting for him, and that open door. She was over the bed in two sliding steps, and her torso hit the door, hard, as it closed on her in that second. The lock clicked, and she fought with the doorknob simultaneously. Finally, she just began pounding and kicking, screaming all the while.

Exhaustion took over quickly, and her tantrum subsided as she sank to the floor, her back against the door, her legs curled up to her chest. "No. No, no, no, no, no, no," she only whispered now, but it never stopped. Eventually, the tears calmed, and her head fell back against the door with a thud. "Vincent!" her heart ached.

She thought of the warehouse, what she could remember of it. He'd found her, they'd been so close; so close that they could have touched. She had felt him that night; she remembered that. Some remnant of that sweet, cherished bond had been electrified, and just for a few moments, she could feel him. Perhaps it had been the distress of the situation that had caused it, or perhaps it had been their close proximity after so much time apart. Why? Why wouldn't it come back to them now, in the time they needed it most?

"Vincent!" her heart screamed to that small place inside her that had always held his essence. "Vincent! They're trying to take the baby! _Our_ baby! We have a child!" Her body convulsed in sudden sobs. "Why didn't I tell you? Why didn't I just stay Below?" But that still, small place held no solace or explanation. "Answer me, damn it!" She kicked at the nightstand. "Come back! Please, just give it back to us. Please give him back to me." She breathed hard and heavy. "Vincent…" she whispered aloud, her eyes drifting closed, "hear me!"

She reached for her neck, the collar of her gown they had put her in was long ago pushed away and open, and she instinctually clawed at that spot somewhere between her neck and breasts. Only her own skin greeted her hand and she tore at herself even more furiously. Gone. No chain, no crystal. No more talisman against the evils of the world. No more love seemingly encased in reflective glass. But, still she searched her body, scratching at her chest until she drew blood, as if it had somehow been hidden under her skin.

There was a mechanical whirring sound and she looked up quickly to find the surveillance camera just above her. She launched herself upward, wobbling on unsteady feet, and jumped into view of the camera, a wild, manic feeling coursing through her veins.

"I hate you!" she hissed at it. "Do you hear me?" she screamed and slammed her fist against the wall. "I HATE YOU!"


	3. Chapter 3

Everything went quiet for the following weeks. No visits from the captor, no change in food or routine, and she let them all see her depression that was nearly catatonic. She endured the indignities of the medical exams with utter stoicism. The doctor, who had attempted compassion, was instructed not to ever use her name, and when it nearly slipped from his lips, the barrel of a gun was pushed to his ribs. She was no one, she was nothing, she was 'it'.

In those weeks, those three weeks of loathing and despair, she longed for voices and they flooded back to her by the thousands. Moments, snatches, tiny memories that meant nothing at all, but she treasured each one. Random voices from her past rushing through her at every sound that met her ears; the whirring camera, the distant honk of a car horn, and the clicks of the lamp. And _his_ voice, Vincent's voice, above all others, flowed through her body like music. _His _voice that would read to her, or talk to her, she never let him stop. She never wanted to forget every rasp of a word, every breathy statement at the sight of her, every hint of an English accent that he had learned from Father; making her every nerve twitch with anticipation of his touch. And, one day, she often convinced herself, their precious child would be lulled into sweet dreams by that voice. Her child would have the poetry, the music of its father's voice, _not_ the floating, sinister black water of her captor.

Once, for a moment, just a moment, she dared to think of what may happen if her captor succeeded. If he took the child and disappeared, what might her babe become under such instruction? It made her want to scream and throw things in anger and fear. It made her, for just a moment, wish that the child had never existed.

"It's not fair that this baby should have to suffer, just because it's unlucky enough to get stuck inside of me, instead of somebody else."

Lena's sad words had never rung more true in her heart than they did at that moment. There were so many others who could have loved, and kept this baby safe. Why was it given to _her_? Why was it given such a cruel fate? She wanted to rip the child from her womb and hand it over to these imaginary caretakers, and she would have done it, happily, if the opportunity presented itself.

The moment passed. The child was _hers_; _Vincent's_; and she would protect it with every breath in her body.

Plastic forks have oddly sharp points. When her body was pressed against the wall, in the space between the back wall and the door, the camera couldn't see her. It's amazing how little light is needed when there is nothing to occupy the night time hours, but one's own thoughts.

The digital clock changed, and she flattened herself tighter against the wall. She glanced at her tray of food on the bed, and the closed bathroom door. She gripped the light bulb tight in one hand, and twirled the plastic fork in the other. Her body was pulsing uncontrollably, everything shaking, every muscle at the ready.

The door opened slowly, tentatively. She could feel their suspicion and adjusted her plan slightly. The nurse caught sight of her just the half of a second before she gripped the smaller woman's shoulder and shoved her into the bed. Without looking at the result, she spun back, and sure enough there was a guard already in the doorway. The fork was impaled into his neck before he could react to her swing. Blood squirted out at her, but she pushed him into the bed and paid no attention.

She made it into the hallway. She tried to rush by the two guards flanking the ends, but one was quick enough to catch her. Both arms wrapped around her chest and he pulled her off of her feet, her arms flailing freely. She kicked backwards and caught him in the groin. She slid out of his grip, onto the floor, scrambling to catch her balance. The other guard rushed up on her and she swung the arm with the light-bulb, breaking it against his eyes. He fell back, clutching at his face and crying out.

She moved to run, but the one guard had recovered enough from her kick and he grabbed at her legs, knocking her to the floor. She lost her breath for a second, but pushed through it, struggling and kicking her legs as he wrestled to climb up her body and subdue her. She caught him with her foot a few times; once in the face, more in his chest, but it didn't seem to phase him long enough for her to break free.

He made it up to her torso, sitting on his knees, and caught one wrist, flipping her onto her back while he straddled her and wrapped his legs into hers to hold them down. He released her wrist, only long enough to get a good grip on her throat, pinning her to the floor. He sat back on that hard, slightly protruding section of her abdomen, with only enough force to keep her in place. Her arms swung wildly, scratching at his face and punching as many places as she could reach.

She had both palms open and against the underside of the guard's chin, attempting to twist his neck when a familiar click sounded close by her ear. She followed the arm, close to her head, up to find the first guard, clutching his bloody neck with his spare hand. The gun was pressed into her temple, pushing her head into the floor.

"You don't want to do that," he threatened, his voice eerily calm.

Her hands dropped away from the guard's face, watching the gun as best she could. The guard's hands came away from her neck and he rose back up to his knees, and then climbed to his feet. Each guard took hold of opposite wrists and pulled her to her feet as they would a feather. The nurse, her uniform covered in soup and juice, was near the door, kneeling by the guard she'd hit with the light-bulb, tending to him, but glowering at the captured woman.

The guards began hauling her back towards her room, and she kicked her feet up, twisting to get away, screaming as they dragged her through the door and tossed her at the blood and food stained bed. Her upper body flopped against the mattress and she slid off onto the floor as the door closed and locked. In her rage, she grabbed the tray and hurled it at the door, screaming low and guttural, deep in her throat. The tray made a hard smacking sound and fell to the floor, useless, spilling food all over.

She screamed and screamed and screamed, arms swinging, legs kicking until she could no longer make her body do anything more, and she curled into a clean spot on the floor and let sleep take her away from that terrible moment.

* * *

"Unbutton your gown and lay on the table," the statement was becoming routine, and the doctor had stopped looking at her even.

"No," she croaked, her voice cracking from over use.

The doctor glanced at her, and then quickly away, as if the sight of her drawn, hateful eyes made her much too human in his mind. A guard stepped forward, a hand to his gun, his bandaged neck tensing for another fight.

"Call him," her voice rumbled in her chest, barely escaping her throat.

The doctor shook his head, averting his eyes as much as possible, trying to somehow occupy himself with his instruments. "It's… it's not always so simple."

She swung herself around, making everyone in the room jump, and faced the camera that was always trained on the table. "Hey!" her voice hitched and caught in her throat. "Can you hear me? I want to talk to you." Her eyes suddenly went distant and dark, "I want to tell you something."

"Tell me," a voice sounded from an unidentifiable speaker.

"Come down here," she choked, her gaze far away, and her breath labored suddenly. "You'll want to hear this in person, I promise you."

There was a long silence where everyone, except she, looked as if they expected him to either drop from the ceiling, or inexplicably explode the room for her impertinence.

"Andrews," his voice sounded. "If she makes a move before I get there… put a bullet in her shoulder."

The chamber clicked before her gaze ever made it back to the guard with the bandaged neck. She gave him no reaction. She did, however, give credit to her captor. Not a bullet through her heart or her head, but her shoulder. He knew that she had no fear of death now. He saw the welcoming of the idea in her heavy, drawn eyes. But, a bullet in the shoulder; not death, only serious injury; it would incapacitate her significantly. There would be no way she could fight through any guards with only one arm.

She remained stone. Her eyes flickered around the room, the first chance she'd had to really examine it standing up. No windows, nothing but machinery to even attempt to break. There were, however a set of emergency surgical instruments lain out on the wheeled tray between herself and the doctor. She looked away from them, not allowing her glance to come back, should the guard catch the covetous look in her eyes.

There was a rush of air as the door burst open and he strolled into the room, calm as could be. His piercing eyes met hers, level and just as focused. They stared each other down for a moment, each trying to force their superiority on the other.

"I saw your escape attempt," he commented without a flicker of emotion or opinion, positive or negative. "It was nearly as vicious as his attempt to get to you." The doctor shifted nervously.

"Isn't that what you wanted? To see just how feral I could become?" her voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the tiny space.

"Not at all," he chuckled at her, as if they were good friends having a casual conversation. "I needed no proof of that. I already knew you were quite capable. You see, my downfall may have been my supposed assumptions, but what you fail to understand is that your downfall will be caused by the exact same thing."

She breathed deeply, trying to steel her quaking body. "I know where the book is," she watched everyone in the room shift, except for her sparring partner. "I'll give it to you; it and all of the information in it," her voice was growing more and more tired, dropping in and out of breathy gasps. "You let me go, and it's yours," she closed her eyes, trying to look tired instead of actually praying that he wouldn't call her bluff.

"Assumptions are strange things," he spoke as if she'd never said a word. "They make one plan, strategize, and no matter what we do, we cannot block that need to assume that we are in control. We need to know that we are so sure of what is coming. But, life is not a weather pattern to plot and predict. It is a rollercoaster of twists and turns. You're on a steep downward hill one moment, and upside down the next. Why is it that we always try to see what is ahead of us? Why, why the rushing wind will always blind us to it?"

"Do we have a deal or not?" she wanted to yell, but she only croaked.

He observed her, her muscles taut to keep from shaking and her strength hanging by a thread. It was like a painting, beautiful and terrible. "You, therefore," he continued his thoughts, "are harboring the assumption that I care at all for the book. The silly paper; bound with glue, containing globs of ink; that brought our two paths together. No," he watched her heart sink, "that book was only the catalyst, the guide on our journey to our true fates. The book means nothing now." He turned away from her, deeming the pointless conversation over.

"No!" she called, harsh and guttural. "That can't be all. There has to be something! Anything!"

"You have nothing I want!" It was his first and only display of any frustration, anything other than inane calm. He turned back, his eyes falling to that covetous spot at her belly. "One thing," he smiled at her. "And, you won't have much choice in your deliverance from it."

Everything moved too fast, even for her. The scalpel was in her hand before even she knew what was happening. The gun trained on her moved closer, and her captor held his hand out to stop the advancing guard. She pressed the blade to the hard swell at her abdomen, panting through her teeth and shifting her weight to a more stable stance.

"Fine," her minimal voice flowed out on her breath. "Then, it comes to this."

He studied her for a moment, the upward blade dangerously close to her delicate skin. A smirk graced his face, calling her bluff. "You would kill his child? I doubt you could harm any child, much less his."

She pressed just hard enough to draw a few drops of blood, wincing with it. Her harsh gaze met his again and she whispered, low and full of hatred. "I would rather see our child dead, than your hands ever attempting to claim him." He stepped toward her and she stepped back. "I am _not_ bluffing!"

He stopped, but the smile never left his face as his stare bore into her. "How many years… how many nights have you dreamt of this child? How many sleepless nights imagining its face, smiling up at you? How many times have you stared into his face, and dreamed of a babe that looked exactly like him?" He caught the relax of her grip on the blade, but didn't let his attention linger. "How many times have you closed your eyes and smelled the sweet powder, or felt the softness of its skin? How many variations of names have you invented? How long have you longed for this?"

Her mouth parted, unable to stop the quiver of her lips and the watering of her eyes.

"How many books have you collected? How many lullabies have you learned? How many months have you spent begging that monthly visitor to never make an appearance?"

The scalpel tucked flat along her palm, the same palm that was now pressed against the growth. Her mind raced with answers to each of his questions; she knew each dream and every longing. She couldn't stop the flood, no matter how she tried. Tears flowed easily, her breath hitching with suppressed sobs.

"How often do you imagine him, with his child in his arms? How often do you see that pride in his face?"

Her hand went immediately to her neck, instinctually going for her crystal. Nothing was there, but she mouthed Vincent's name, purely out of habit. Her heart was sinking, deeper and deeper. She wanted to scream, knowing that her captor was right. The child was too precious to her. Bargaining with the book that Joe had given her was easy. She knew enough about their operation; it would be easy to contact authorities as soon as she was free. But, the baby… she truly had spent too much time dreaming of this child to be able to part with it… much less destroy it.

He watched her, crying and clutching at her chest. He saw the scratch marks and the desperate, hopeless search that she obviously knew would result in nothing. "Doctor," he called softly, "retrieve your instrument, and be sure to keep it under a closer watch from now on."

The doctor moved, true terror radiating off of him, crossing to the broken woman. They both jumped when she pulled away, but upon a slow and calm reach, the scalpel was easily pulled from her hand. The doctor rushed away from her, eager to be far enough away that he could block all human empathy.

He motioned to the guards and they rushed her, grasping her elbows before she even saw them coming. They moved her past him and she suddenly began twisting and kicking to get away.

"Wait," she pleaded weakly. "Please, wait! Wait, no! Please!" she struck out and caught the door-casing, her fingers straining to lock around its grooves. "Anything!" she yelled, as much as she could, at him. "Anything else but my baby! Please!"

"You still don't understand, do you?" He turned slowly, such placid calm marked in his features. "You don't matter. You are nothing. You are the vessel. Your association with the father was only to produce the child, it was meant for nothing more."

Her heart broke at the terrible, ugly thought.

"Once the child is dragged from your body, you will serve no more purpose in this world. That is your fate."

The guards began pulling at her again and she struggled to pull her arms free of them. "He'll come for me!" she whispered, low and terrible. "He always comes for me! You know that!" The guards were pulling her down the hall, with her screaming with all the sound she could achieve. "He'll come! And he'll kill you! That is _your_ fate!"

* * *

Days passed; days of nothing at all. Meals came in and went back out; all of her forks now replaced with spoons, and the camera was moved to a more accessible location. There were no excursions to that terrible surgical room and no one spoke to her, no matter what she said to them. She often found time to hurl biting obscenities at the stoic camera at the corner of her room, but most of her time was take up by the quiet conversations she had with the tiny life inside her.

That horrible moment, when she'd pressed the knife to the innocent babe, played itself continually in her mind, and she spent hours apologizing aloud and silently for it. Occasionally, nightmares would plague her sleep, and she found herself wishing that she'd had the courage to spare the babe the tortures it was about to be born into. She hated herself for even the hint of the thought. "Never again, my sweet," she swore.

Odd vibrations had begun, low in her abdomen, just at the base of the bump that was forming. It tickled and made her nerves stand on end. It took her a few days, but eventually she figured out that it was the beginnings of kicking. She had heard of the sensation from someone. Nancy? Lena? Maybe from… oh, what was her name? Damn, what was her name? Two semesters of college together, she was pregnant in her junior year. What was her name?

"Think, Catherine!" she cursed herself. "You're not an animal! You're a woman! You studied law at Radcliffe. Joe Maxwell, your boss, loves to tease you about it. And, in your junior year, your friend… come on! What's her name?" She banged her fist on the backboard of the bed.

The hitch of the lock sounded and she started out of bed. She glanced at the clock; it was too late at night for a meal, though she wouldn't refuse the extra food rations. Light spilled into her dark room and a guard was silhouetted in the doorway. He had no one with him, and she shifted nervously, unsure of his intentions. He raised one arm slowly, and then opened his hand, allowing a long chain to dangle off his finger. Her breath stopped as the light from the hallway bounced off of the perfect crystal at the end of the chain.

"He says that he hopes it encourages good behavior."

The necklace was tossed at her and she dove for it as if it were fine china. The door closed and locked, and the room was plunged into black again. It didn't matter. She twisted the chain into her fingers, clutching it close, the rock tapping against her chest. Tears welled in her eyes as her heart seemed to grow in her chest.

She raced to the window, throwing the chain over her head and falling to the floor, capturing the crystal and pressing it into her palm. The night sky seemed to billow in soft clouds through her window and, just as she ached for it, the clouds separated and revealed the moon, full and large and beautiful.

"I'm here!" she whispered. "I'm right here, Vincent! I love you!"

The moon seemed to devour her, its opaque light glinting off of the crystal whenever she allowed it the opportunity.

"Can you see it, my little Pip?" she giggled at the sudden nickname that had flown from her lips. "The moon? It's beautiful. Your father loves the moon. He's watching it with us, Pip. Can you feel it? He's right here beside us. Believe it! You are not a conquest! You are not a thing! You're a child, _my_ child, and you have a family who loves you. Never forget! No matter what happens, your mother and father love you more than life itself."

The crystal grew hot in her hand and she released it to feel the weight of it against her chest. She remembered the first time she'd ever seen the precious stone. She was not 'nothing'! She was Catherine Chandler! Vincent's Catherine! And she was only an animal if she let herself believe it.

"Catherine," she began whispering her own name to herself. "Catherine. Catherine! I'm a person! I have a name. Catherine!"

Something in her brain clicked, and it was as if a fog lifted. "Kathy," she whispered. The college friend who was pregnant in her junior year and had told her about the tickling sensations; her name was Kathy. It had been a source of many jokes that their names were practically identical.

She rested her head against the window glass, the coolness surprisingly soothing on her skin, and the tickling inside her subsiding. "Goodnight, my Pip." The moon bathed her skin and she allowed her eyes to close, slipping into dreams. "Catherine. Catherine. Vincent."


	4. Chapter 4

She was true to the agreement for the following weeks. She no longer insulted the guards, the doctor, or the little surveillance cameras. She only followed and complied with anything they asked of her, all the while holding the precious crystal close. During medical exams, she would take it off and hold it tightly in her hand; a talisman against whatever they may subject the rest of her body to.

Her captor made no more appearances, verbal or physical. For a while, she was thankful for the slight reprieve, but then she began to question his absence, and that's when the true fear of her situation began. She started comparing his behaviors to others in the past who had been the catalysts to these situations. Paracelsus had been focused on Vincent; everything he'd done had been to draw his attention, to force him into frenzies. Kidnapping her, posing as Father; just his attempts to pull the darkness out of Vincent. Her stalker had been fixated on her; pure jealousy had driven him. It didn't have to be Vincent, it could have been any man, and he still would have gone into a rage. Spirko, well, he was just a reporter, feeling entitled to print whatever he pleased with no thought as to how it would affect anyone. The only investment he had was how famous he would become for revealing them.

But, this man; he had no interest in her, that was clear from moment one. He had begun to sound interested in Vincent at first, but then had given up so easily when she had refused to answer questions about him. No, his interest in Vincent was distant and passing, at best. And, as far as fame, not only was he obviously a man of extremely low-profile, but if he had wanted to expose them to the world, he would have tried to go public already.

No, he was entirely different. He stayed far away from her, where the others were trying to get closer. He made statements, instead of asking questions. He made her health a top priority; while the others had cared little for her well-being.

'Not me,' she reminded herself, her skin crawling, 'the baby. I am nothing to him.'

Everything; her meals, her exams, her room, her hygiene; they were all for the tiny being inside her. It unnerved her so; if it had been her or Vincent that he had fixated on, this would all be so much less terrifying. She had faced that before, it was nearly second nature to know how to defend and protect him and herself. But this, it was uncharted territory, and she suddenly felt so powerless in the face of it.

'You are not powerless,' she scolded herself. 'This is my body! My baby! Do not lose hope, Catherine. Vincent is coming! He _will_ come!'

But, the days were getting longer, and the silence had become insufferable. She couldn't even count the number of times she had tried to engage the nurse in conversation, no matter that all she received were the indifferent glances and tight-lipped expressions. There was no happiness, anywhere, and the lack of joy was beginning to press on her… crush her.

Another exam; they were nothing if not thorough. She followed dutifully now, with only one guard following close behind her and the nurse. They were trusting her, and her good behavior, more with each passing day. There were many times when she considered taking advantage of that. But, then, the crystal would beat lightly against her chest, or grow hot in her hand. The child would flutter, and then eventually began kicking against her. The thought of losing that crystal; her gesture of good faith; was somehow petrifying now. Each day the child grew, much too fast, _that_ she knew, and she grew more clumsy along with the baby. She seemed to constantly be dizzy and unsteady on her feet, not to mention the bulk she had acquired. It seemed to her now, that pressing her advantage would only hinder her cause; probably losing the crystal, and worse; possibly losing the baby.

She followed dutifully, quietly, the chain already off of her neck and wrapped in her fingers. The white surgical room was oppressive, but only slightly more than her own room, because of the artificial light. She followed the instructions, unbuttoning and laying on the exam table. The ceiling was paneled, allowing access to the air ducts, unlike her room which was all dry wall. Often, she would lie on the table, devising plans as to what to use to climb up into the ducts and out to freedom, but these plans always relied on her being left alone in the room, which had never, and would never, happen.

The ultrasound gel was cold and made her skin crawl. There was a steady thumping sound, but she had trained herself to not look. This was invasive and unnecessary; they had the technology to look inside her and see a growing fetus. But, she… she had a power infinitely greater. She could emotionally connect to her womb and find a _person_ growing there. She only stared at the ceiling, clinging to the crystal, while the scientists poked and prodded, and played with their toys, never knowing that a power so much greater was at work. This was all the pride that she could afford for herself, and she relished in it.

The doctor was clicking buttons, the nurse was handing him instruments, and she was lying prone playing Beethoven in her head to distract herself. The thumping of the baby's heartbeat pounded away, almost in time to the music playing in her head, and she longed to touch that place on her belly and feel the vibrations under her fingers. She kept her hands to the sides, as instructed, rubbing the crystal between her thumb and forefinger. The doctor and the nurse were staring intently at the monitor; she taking notes, he with one hand on the scanner, the other out of vision.

There was a sudden crash of metal on the floor, echoing in the nearly silent room, startling all four occupants. The doctor raced to retrieve the tray and instruments, the nurse scrambling to help with the first hint of an actual expression seen in her.

Simply upon reflex, her head turned toward the crash, and she was suddenly face to face with the image on the screen. The monitor held the visage of a baby, its oddly formed body cradled in its soft shell, its long arms and legs curling into itself, as if it too were protesting the indignities it was suffering. Its sweet face held the heart shape of her own, but its chin curved with Vincent's definition. Her mind was racing with the beauty of the child as she searched the screen, soaking up every detail she rested her eyes on. Her heart was pounding, and as it did, the thumping on the monitor quickened as well. She felt the kick only a second before she saw it on the screen, and in that split second before the retraction, she found the evidence she had unconsciously been looking for.

A boy. She was almost positive. She wanted to cry and cry out. She wanted to tell someone, anyone, and smile about it. She wanted Vincent there. She wanted to look into his eyes and tell him that he was going to have a son. She wanted to see that shining pride in his face so badly that her whole body ached for it. Her own heart was trying to burst out of her chest, it was so inflated with pride, and joy, and love.

The surgical instruments were placed back on the tray and discarded for cleaning and sanitizing. The nurse hurried back to her original position. The doctor turned and found himself staring at his patient. A stray tear fell from her right eye, across the bridge of her nose and onto the table. Her mouth hung open, her breathing coming erratically, and her lips trembling. She was transfixed, hypnotized, taking no notice of anyone else in the room for those brief moments.

The doctor quickly turned the monitor away, the wheeled cart it was set on, spinning to face him. She took a deep, gasping breath, and her head quickly swiveled back, her gaze fixing on the ceiling again, and the tears fell more fervently now, sliding back into her hair. She squeezed her eyes closed, obviously trying to maintain some control over herself, and squeezed the hand with the chain in it so tightly that the doctor feared he may see blood drawn. He turned away quickly, avoiding the pitiful sight of her, returning to his work.

Her mind raced faster than even she could keep up with. That perfect little baby had stared back at her from the monitor, and suddenly, everything seemed so unimportant. Once the exam was over, she followed the nurse back to her room, as calmly as she had left it. But, once the lock sounded, something in her snapped, and she began to panic. What had she been doing for these weeks? Had she really been clinging to the fear of losing the precious crystal over her child's safety? What did the crystal matter as long as she and the child made it out of there, safe and alive? What had made her think that this gesture of good faith meant that her captor might not harm them? They were in danger. They needed to escape now, before she grew too large and clumsy.

She ran her hands over the little bump at her mid-section, the crystal in her hand making odd shapes against her. 'Think!' she commanded herself while she paced. 'There must be a way out. Focus! The Bond is gone; you can't rely on Vincent if he can't feel you. It's up to you, Catherine. Now, think!'

The bulb in her lamp hadn't been, and most likely wouldn't be, replaced since she broke it upon her last escape attempt, so that was out. The lamp itself was plastic and of no use. There was a bulb in the bathroom, but it was much too high for her reach. The light bulb idea was out, no matter how beautifully it had worked the last time.

She considered trying to break the window and fashion a rope ladder out of the bed-sheets. She was fairly certain that the nightstand was sturdy enough to break the glass if she used the top like the head of a battering ram. But, not only would she only have one shot at it, but she had no idea how far up she was. It had to be twenty stories at the very least, and there was no way those bed-sheets would reach even half that distance.

The clock ticked away at her, the room growing dimmer with the approach of evening, and all the while she paced. It all came down to simplicity. They were beginning to relax, trusting that she would be compliant as long as she had the crystal. She would press her advantage. The nurse was easy enough; it was the guard who would be difficult to overcome. But, as long as she could take him down and obtain his gun, she was sure that she could get herself through the rest of the guards. She shuddered with the mental image of the brutality that would be necessary for this plan to work.

There was movement under her hand suddenly, and she jumped, inhaling lightly. Slowly, she relaxed and smiled down at herself. "We can do this," she assured the babe. "We will!" she crawled into the bed for the first time since her exam, and the sudden cushion was an unexpected comfort. She braced herself against the headboard, her legs curled up as best she could while she pet her stomach. "I'm not afraid to tell you… I'm petrified, Pip. I've never been a mother before, but something tells me that my biggest worry right now should be my diet, or… how to afford baby furniture. Not, how to find the best weakness so that I can wound the guard holding me captive. Of course," her mind wandered, "diet wouldn't be a problem if we were home. William would cook for us; everything healthy and delicious all at once. And, baby furniture would be the least of our problems, come to think of it. Both Mouse and Cullen are a couple of the best craftsmen I know. Then, there's Vincent," she easily transitioned into a distant and whimsical focus. "Your father would make you the most beautiful crib. _Will_; he _will_ make you a beautiful crib!" She went quiet, trying to still the pounding of her heart, and the ache that ran much deeper. "What would your father say right about now, Pip?"

There was movement under her palm and she traced it with her pointer finger. "He would tell me how strong I am; how I can overcome anything. He would tell me not to fear the inevitable; accept it, and do what must be done. He would tell me that he loves me," tears began falling and she basked in the warm humanity of them. "And then… he would probably recite something beautiful to me." She sniffed hard and wiped at the tears. "All right, let's see… we'll start with something classic…

"_How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps_,"

She paused, running her hands over the place where the pressure was constant.

"…_everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us. So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloudshadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you_…"

She was crying now, the fear of everything; Vincent's possible reaction to the news of her pregnancy, her current situation, and the plans for her escape; they all quaked in the pit of her stomach.

"…_that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall_."

* * *

"Catherine," a dim voice called sweetly, softly. "Catherine… my love… Catherine, open your eyes."

She did as she was bid, shaking her head to clear it of the sleep-induced fog. She blinked hard, trying to clarify the image before her, but it only served to make her more certain of hallucination. He stood against the door, taller and more all-encompassing than she had ever seen him before. He watched her with those calm, sky-blue eyes that he wore so very well. His lips parted as he tilted his head, searching, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

Her mouth fell open, her breath suddenly coming in short gasps. "Vincent?" she hesitated, afraid to allow his name to escape her lips, lest it be untrue.

"Catherine," he breathed her name. He took a hesitant step toward her, and then another.

She sat up slowly, disbelief still clouding her, even as he moved with that small hesitation, so characteristic of him whenever he first saw her after time apart.

Slowly, he sank onto the bed beside her, watching her with wonder and love sparkling in his eyes. He leaned toward her, ever so slightly, and then pulled back upon better judgment.

Tentatively, fearing the worst, she reached toward him, her fingers making contact with his cheekbone, and then sliding down to his jaw, her thumb tracing the course hairs just under his chin. Her breath stuck in her throat and her green eyes swam with tears. "Oh God," her soft voice trembled, "Vincent!"

With no second thoughts, she launched herself out of bed and into his arms. Her arms locked about his neck, and she threw a leg over his, straddling his lap and pressing her body as tightly to him as she possibly could. She could have died with joy when his hands pressed into either sides of her back, and he clung to her just as fervently as she did to him.

"I searched for you," he whispered, his hot breath coursing down her back.

"How?" she sobbed. "How did you find me?"

His grip on her relaxed and she leaned back into his arms, their temples sliding along each other, stopping when their foreheads touched. Both of their eyes half-closed, they reveled in the feeling of skin-upon-skin.

"I'll never stop. I swore to Father, and to the rest of the world… I'll never stop until I find you. I'll always come for you. You are everything, Catherine. Everything!"

Tears flowed from her closed lids. She was no longer an animal, no longer nothing. She was Vincent's; she was everything.

"Hold me!" she begged, and clung to him again. "Hold me, and don't ever let go!"

"I love you, Catherine," he whispered as his hands climbed higher and were lost into the forest of her hair.

She exhaled heavily; their breaths creating a rocking motion against each other. She buried her face in his neck, for only a second, before lifting her lips to his ear and kissing the soft flesh just above his jaw. "I love you, Vincent," she whispered and burrowed back into his neck, placing feather-light kisses at his pulse-point.

"I have…" his voice was hesitant, but full of emotion just begging to be freed, "I have never held you like this."

She took stock of their intimate positioning, how well she melded against him from hip to shoulder. Slowly, she leaned back to find his eyes. A sad smile graced her lips as she watched him in wanting. "You have," she confessed. "You just don't remember."

He was confused, and he tilted his head as if it would make her words more clear. She touched his face, softly tracing his brow, and his eyes, his nose, and all the while her face growing red with a rush of hot blood to her cheeks.

"The night, in the cave…" she glanced at his chest, suddenly growing very warm in his hands, and then caught his gaze again. "When I came for you…" her eyes lingered on the odd and beautiful shape of his mouth. "We loved," she whispered, some strange mixture of embarrassment and pride lacing her words.

"Loved?" he repeated, his gaze fixed on her, questioning her with every fiber of his body. She nodded, the smile on her face faint, while the rest of her glowed with happiness. He breathed heavily against her. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head slowly, adoration shining through her now. "Not once," she assured.

"Tell me," he whispered, his breath on her skin making her shiver. "Tell me what it was like."

"It…" she hesitated, her smile growing and her belly squirming with the memory, "it was beyond mere words."

His eyes closed at the sound of her voice, and he pressed his forehead to hers. "Try. Please?"

So positioned, she was forced to stare at his engaging lips, forming such sweet and delicate pleas. Slowly, hesitantly, she leaned closer and pressed her lips against his. He did not startle or pull away, but he waited and allowed her to demonstrate. Cautiously, she slid a hand along his face, catching his ear between her fingers, and clinging to his thick mane. Still, he allowed her to continue, and she, emboldened by this, pressed against him more urgently. Sweetly, softly, she parted her lips, massaging his, inviting him to join her, and he quickly followed suit. The kiss was soft and gentle, with only their lips partaking, massaging the life back into each other. But, she quickly grew more urgent and her tongue darted out to lap at the cleft in his upper lip. He moaned at the sensation and crushed his mouth against hers suddenly, his hands sliding through her hair and supporting her head.

Their tongues danced; a waltz of lightning and flame, power and passion. She let herself go in his supporting arms, indulging in how he devoured her soul and delivered it to her again, cleaner and more whole than ever before. Her arms were locked about his neck again, pulling herself tighter against him whenever she won supremacy of the kiss.

They parted slowly, reluctantly. They were shaking, bolts of electricity still coursing under their skins. Both sets of lips hung open slightly, quivering, separated from the other pair by mere centimeters so that they occasionally brushed against each other with a shift of the head or a heavy breath. There was nothing around them, the world had melted away, and the hunger for each other burned like acid in their bellies.

"That's what it was like," Catherine whispered, her lips catching against his briefly, sending a bolt of lightning through her whole body.

His heart beat like a drum against her chest while he searched her face, the corners of his mouth pulling into a faint smile. "You are…" he searched for the word, but none seemed quite adequate, so he settled on second best, "remarkable." He leaned in to capture her again, but she pulled away.

"There's more," she dropped her gaze. "I should have told you sooner. But, every time I saw you, you were full of such pain. I couldn't bear to place even one more burden on you."

He spared a hand to place under her chin, pulling her flooded green eyes back up to him. "Your news holds joy, Catherine. I can hear it in your heart. Please, share it with me."

His words made the rushing blood pound in her ears. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once, so badly that she feared the words would never escape her. "Vincent…" she gulped, "I am carrying a child."

"A child?" he gaped at her in disbelief.

She clung to him tight suddenly, gripping the folds of his cloak in her fists, speaking with an urgency that sprang from the very depths of her. "_Your _child! Yours! A boy. A beautiful boy. I've seen him, Vincent!" she seized his hand suddenly and pressed his palm to her protruding belly, and he startled at the sensation of it. "I am carrying our son."

He spent a moment searching the depths of her eyes, and then simply grasped at her face and captured her lips again. She surrendered to him, loved him, languished in him for a few brief moments, but broke away quickly, urgency coursing through her.

"We can't stay here," she whispered. "It's dangerous. We have to get out of here! We have to go! Now!"

"I don't understand," Vincent shook his head, looking around at the pure white walls. "Where are we?"

"What?" she tried to make herself process his words clearly, but everything was happening much too quickly. "We have to get out of here. They're trying to take our baby away, Vincent! They know about you. He's watching us!" her eyes quickly shot up to the surveillance camera, trained on the two of them so intimately joined on the edge of the bed. "He's always watching!"

"Who is he, Catherine?" Vincent demanded sharply.

"I don't know. I-" she froze, mid-statement. Her whole body was suddenly shaking and there was a slicing pain somewhere deep inside her.

"Catherine?" his voice was growing distant and muffled. "What's wrong?"

Her gaze slid along the length of him, from chest, to torso, to hip, where they connected, and then trailed back up her own body, stopping when a foreign object was found. The hilt of a knife extended from low in her belly. Its silver, metallic end glinted at her, almost winking at her, in the pale moonlight. Her stunned eyes trailed up to Vincent, who still searched her, as if he couldn't see her obvious injury.

And then she was falling, backwards, out of his arms, reaching for him, screaming for him, crying out in pain. Their fingers touched briefly before she slid out of his grasp. Her body hit hard concrete with a crunching sound and the world was black.

* * *

"NO!" she bolted upward, screaming, sweat soaking her entire body. Her heart raced and she shook everywhere. It took a moment before she realized that she was on the floor beside the bed. Her blanket was wrapped tight around her legs, and she struggled against it. Immediately, she grabbed at her belly, searching for a knife or the hint of a wound. Nothing. She had only fallen out of bed. The child was still tucked safe and secure inside her.

She dared not try and stand, her legs were shaking too badly. Her arms were too weak to pull herself back into bed, not even having the strength to hold her upright. Resigned to it, she pulled the blankets loosely up around her, and rolled to her side, curling slightly. She reached around herself, trying to find some remnant of Vincent having been there, but there was nothing. There was only her.

A nightmare. Just another nightmare.


	5. Chapter 5

Just a short chapter for today. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Days passed. It would be a while before her next exam, she knew that. This knowledge only served to make her more nervous and paranoid. She paced her room for hours, casting glances at the invasive camera. She began feeling like an animal; a caged tiger, pacing, waiting for the slightest opportunity to strike. Occasionally, she would force herself to stop, bracing against the wall and gazing out the window. These were the times that she would find something to recite to the baby; anything to remind herself of her past, and possibly influence her unborn son.

She was exhausted now, her head resting on the cool glass of the window, her palm pressed there as well, pretending that she could feel the city air just beyond her fingers.

"_The city, seen from the Queensboro Bridge, is always the city seen for the first time; in its first wild promise of all the mystery and beauty in the world_."

Gazing out into the evening, her mind drifted, as it usually did, to Vincent. Where was he tonight? Had he slept in these last weeks, months? Did he know, he must know, that she had not left him of her own free will? She prayed that he didn't think, for some twisted reason, that she had abandoned him. After his illness, he had opened up to her, accepted her love so wholly, that she had begun the think that they may actually achieve a normal relationship. And then, she had discovered their child, and the world seemed to be rewarding them for all of their hardships.

No, it had all been ripped away in a single moment. Maybe Vincent had slept all day and was only waking now to roam the streets in search of her. Maybe he lay Below, wallowing in misery, believing her dead and lost to him forever.

A bright light suddenly caught her eye, and she stared, amazed, while a woman moved about the adjacent building. She had no idea what was done in this building, this was the first time she'd ever seen anyone inside it, but the woman in the opposite window seemed to be cleaning. She watched the woman, trying desperately to find a way to get her attention. The cleaning woman turned and she could see the dark hair and complexion of an ethnic woman; Spanish? African-American? She couldn't tell.

She watched the woman move from one side of the room to the other and back again, lethargic, bored maybe. She focused her attention, hoping that the cleaning woman would feel her stare and look out her own window. The longer she stared, the more hopeless it all felt. Glancing all the while at the opposite window, she began searching her room for anything to make some sort of signal. Her lamp no longer had a light-bulb, and the light from the bathroom would be too dim. There was nothing to draw attention to herself.

Suddenly, the cleaning woman was wandering toward her own window, looking distant and wistful herself. She gazed out onto the city, the traffic and people, looking as if she couldn't bear one more moment among them, unaware of the desperate woman, just across the street, who wanted nothing more than human contact with the outside world.

With a glance back toward the camera, she pressed herself against the window with resolve, and began waiving to the cleaning woman. It seemed, for a while, like she wouldn't see the frantically waiving woman, but eventually their gazes met and both women froze. They watched each other for a moment, one nervous and cautious, the other desperate and suddenly realizing that she had no way of communicating in this moment of contact.

The cleaning woman turned away quickly, uncomfortable with such human interaction, a trait so characteristic of New Yorkers. Her staring partner pounded the glass on her own side once, but the woman didn't see, she was already halfway out the door. She was practically running from the strange encounter, unnerved and unwilling to become entangled in the story within the building across the street.

"No!" she pounded the glass, the ethnic woman well beyond her sight now. "Damnit!" she pushed herself away from the window angrily. Her gaze swept the room again, but still, there was nothing available to communicate with.

Frustrated beyond words, she paced again, touching each wall as she approached it, feeling as if they were closing in on her; she was in a box, wrapped up tight with no hope of escape. There was no one coming. The Bond was lost, and Vincent probably believed her to be dead. Her captor would not negotiate, he knew what he wanted and nothing would deter him. The staff of people working for him would never speak to her, never help her; happy to exchange money for her humanity. She was going to die, and with her, the child; her son. Even if her captor spared her sweet babe's life, it would not be to give him to his family; it would be to keep him… because he was Vincent's. And with the knowledge of all of this came the thoughts, once again, of how merciful it would be to end the poor child's life now.

She hit the next wall she encountered, furious at herself for her thoughts. It never failed to surprise her how good it felt to hit something. Acting entirely on emotions, she threw herself at the bed and began tearing the sheets and blankets off, flinging them at the window in a frantic rage. It didn't take long to strip the bed, at which point, she gripped her single pillow and began hitting everything she came near with it. She was near to screaming, the sounds coming from deep in her throat as she beat her pillow against the window; that hateful, traitor of a window.

Overcome with tears, tired much more easily the longer she carried this child, and giving into the futility of her actions, she sank to the floor, burying herself in the scattered blankets and sheets, hugging the pillow to herself. She stared up at the stark white ceiling, seeing it falling closer, stopping only inches from her. This was her casket, her tomb; she would die here, in this maddening whiteness. And, no one would come for her. No one would know that she was here. Years from now, someone would attempt to renovate this building and they would find her decomposed body, laying right here on the floor. There would be an investigation, the headlines of the second page story would read, 'Decade Long Manhunt For Missing ADA Socialite Ends' and by then no one would care. Her captor would be gone, terrorizing someone else. Vincent would have given up on her long ago, and their son lost forever.

It couldn't happen! She couldn't let it. Everything was too precious; Vincent, their love, their Bond, their son. She had a plan, and it had to work.

* * *

She followed the nurse quietly, her eyes flickering, resting briefly on every detail of her surroundings. The nurse's shoes created an odd squeaking noise, the guard behind them dragged his feet. She kept her eyes on the nurse, never looking back at the guard in case her glance informed him of her thoughts. The nurse's arms swung back and forth in opposition while she walked. The pattern was observed, and the rhythm counted by the silent patient behind her.

They were near the stairs. The time was now or never. She took hold of the nurse's wrist and shoulder, and pushed her, face first, into the wall. The nurse dropped, unconscious and bleeding. She spun to face-off with the guard, ready to fight him off. She stopped.

It was Vincent, standing behind her, reaching out for her. He took her hands, his icy gaze burrowing through her.

"Don't," he told her quietly. "Don't do this, Catherine."

"I have to!" she insisted. "I have to try!"

"You can't," he squeezed her hands and pulled her closer. "It's too dangerous. Swear to me, Catherine. Swear you'll stop this."

"I can't! I have to get out of here! I can't bear another second!"

He released her hands and stepped away. "Then, there is nothing I can do."

"Vincent, don't go!" she cried out. But, he had faded away from her. There was something odd when she turned to escape down the stairs, a sensation somehow both familiar and strange. She looked down and found a knife sticking out from just below her navel. The blade was impaled at an upward angle and the metallic hilt pointed to the floor. Slowly, she grasped the knife and pulled it from her flesh. Everything ached in its absence. The blade glittered with her blood. Somewhere in the distance, an infant wailed in pain and fear. And then, it was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Here's a longer chapter. I swear I fell asleep and this thing wrote itself. I don't even remember writing half of it. I love it!

* * *

Everything was beginning to blend together. Days and nights were nearly indistinguishable. The nightmares seemed to overlap, details piling on details that she couldn't seem to forget. It had been years since she'd actually remembered a nightmare in full detail. The last one must have been just after Vincent had found her. A lifetime ago. Now, the nightmares were endless and their images somehow more haunting in the waking hours.

Her confidence was beginning to wane the longer she had to wait. She wasn't sure that this plan was going to work, and the dreams didn't help. She was re-thinking herself constantly, but no matter how many times she rolled it around, there was no better way.

The morning of the exam day, they brought her toast, milk, her prenatal vitamin, and an orange. It was always the same breakfast on the days they were planning to poke and prod her. She couldn't stop the racing of her heart when the nurse set her meal on the bed. She swore the guard and the nurse could both hear the drumming of her heart, and the sudden excitement of her nerves. She tried to maintain a placid expression, but she knew they weren't buying it. She was already jeopardizing this plan. The door closed and her breaths came heavier while she stared at her breakfast.

Everything was happening too fast. She wasn't ready. She wasn't prepared. It was a foolhardy plan. Who was to say something wouldn't go horribly wrong? What made her think that she would pull this off?

The baby pressed against her.

She breathed and ran the plan through her mind again. She was ready. She could do this. Months of street fighting lessons had already prepared her for something like this. This was the best chance she had, and it had to work.

She pulled the tray close and began trying to chew on the toast. Her nerves were too erratic to eat, but she knew that she couldn't go without. The baby couldn't go without. She washed down the vitamin with the milk, and her stomach thanked her for the nutrition. But still, her whole body shook. Her fumbling hands wouldn't allow her to work open the orange; she didn't think the acidity would agree with her stomach anyways.

When she couldn't force any more food, she pushed the tray away and went to the window, bracing herself against the wall. She could just make out the people moving through the streets on the opposite corner. She used to be one of them; hustling through the crowds, evading the street vendors trying to sell her knock-offs, chasing down cabs. How many were there, she wondered. How many women; trapped, locked away, tortured; how many women just like herself had she never known about? When she rushed to a meeting or a party, how many women had been staring down at her, praying that they could somehow reach her? How many had she never known were just a few feet from her; never heard them screaming, pleading for help?

Her heart sank deeper as the questions plagued her, and the final one nearly broke her heart. How many times had Vincent travelled this street looking for her, never knowing how close she really was? How could he know? He couldn't inexplicably find her anymore. Her rescue was up to her. There was no one else to depend on.

She glanced at the clock. They would be coming for her in about two minutes. Two minutes to prepare. She pushed herself off of the wall, forcing herself to think about balance and the strength of her legs. She kept her eyes on the outside world; her goal. Movement quickly caught her eye, and she fixed her gaze on the windows of the opposite building. There stood the cleaning woman from the other day. The woman waived, her movements timid. When she realized that her neighbor had spotted her, she waived more urgently, smiling even.

In her secluded white room, she was stunned for a moment. She hadn't ever expected to see this woman again. Here she was, waiving, friendly, a sudden saving grace amidst all of this terror. Hesitantly, she raised a hand and waived, small gestures, hoping not to alert anyone who might be watching her. The cleaning woman seemed to be ecstatic to be making the connection, and she was growing giddier herself.

The latch sounded and the door opened. She spun, fear gripping her in an instant. The nurse entered, picked up the tray of food and turned to face her. A guard took a step in to find them, his indifferent gaze sweeping over the frightened woman, and then back to the nurse. He made a head gesture, meant for both of them, and she glanced back at the cleaning woman. Gone; only an empty window greeted her. She turned back, the nurse watching her impatiently.

The time was now, and she swallowed, hard, as she made her way past the nurse and out the door. Her deep breaths were nearly uncontrollable as she made her way down the hall. They knew what was coming; every one of them could feel her tension. Some logical part of her brain was screaming at her to abandon this idea, but her emotions wouldn't listen to reason, and now that she was beyond that horrible room, she couldn't bear to return to it. They were close to the staircase now, and she tried to steel the quaking of her body. The nurse's hands were full with the tray; it would be best to take down the guard first, since the nurse was easier to overcome and more likely to run. With a deep breath, she turned.

And that's when she saw it. From the waistline of the guard's pants, a knife glinted at her. A metallic silver hilt, sparkling, seemingly crackling, in the artificial light; daring her. She was frozen, staring at the knife, the exact knife, she had been seeing in her dreams for days, weeks now. It was always sparkling at her, just as it was now, and it was always impaled in her belly. For a quick moment, Vincent's face flashed before her eyes. His sad eyes pleaded with her, 'don't. Please don't. It's too dangerous.'

A hand suddenly contacted her shoulder. She caught the harsh and warning eyes of the guard just before he spun her around and pushed her forward. He followed close, though her steps were halting, the nurse pausing by the door to watch. She felt as if the world were crashing down around her. Her one shot was gone, and that sparkling knife had mocked her failure. She had ruined her own chance at escape because of a dream, a nightmare that, any other time, she'd have dismissed without a second thought. She could, and had, stared down the barrel of a gun and not bat an eyelash. Why had some silly knife immobilized her? Why didn't she move quickly, pull it from him and use it? What was wrong with her?

She heard nothing of what the doctor said to her. She was dazed; far, far away. She only moved by routine, not even taking off her necklace. She didn't see the doctor watch the crystal sliding along her chest and landing on the table with a soft 'clink'. Tears spilled from her, for there was nothing more to be done. Nothing to be done but lie there weeping for a missed opportunity and the loss of all dignity. She resolved to not look at the monitor. It only held disappointment. She had promised; they were supposed to be out by now; they were supposed to be on their way home, back to those large, wonderful, comforting arms. No, she had failed, and there was only cold and indignity.

She lay through the exam, imagining how it would feel to plunge the self-righteous little knife into the guard's heart. Her body shuddered with disgust, but her heart soared with the promise that such an act held. She imagined her hands covered in crimson blood, wet and sticky and beginning to crust as she made her way out the doors. She imagined the stares from the people on the street as she plunged into the anonymity of the crowd. The look on Vincent's face as she rushed into his arms, and the irony of him cleaning the blood off of _her_ hands for a change. She wondered if this was how he felt, all those times he had saved her life, or deemed it necessary to defend another. Did he imagine all of these things too? It seemed strange, suddenly, to know so much about him, but nothing about the most traumatic elements of their lives.

She knew one thing for sure; he never gave up. Even when she was in a trunk at the bottom of a lake, and he felt her life slip from his grasp, he never gave up. Neither could she, not now or ever. And so, she began strategizing as to how she could escape on her way back to her room.

She couldn't hesitate this time. She needed to be ruthless; her mind sharp, while ice-water pumped through her veins. _'Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here and fill me from the crown to the toe-top with direst cruelty.'_

Her nerves twitched and her body jumped in shock when a hand closed around hers. A real hand; not a dream or a vision. She could feel the warmth of the skin and the blood flowing steadily beneath. The hand was large, but she felt no palm against hers. Instead, there were several objects between hers and the other palm, and she hardly had time to process what they were before she was being pulled upright. The doctor kept a firm hold on her hand while he made sure that she was sitting up and stable, all the while pressing the objects into her hand with more and more force.

"You'll be receiving sleeping pills with your evening meal," he told her, his tone always cold and distant. "You haven't been sleeping through the night. This will help."

She couldn't respond. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't determine if the objects in her hand were just a mistake he made, or if he was trying to give her some kind of message. He never looked at her face, true to form, but when he slipped his hand out of hers, he made sure that he left the objects behind. They were large and conspicuous, whatever they were, and she dared not look at them, but her mind raced with how to hide them. Quickly, she grabbed her necklace with her occupied hand, pretending to play with it while she hid the objects against her chest.

She watched him as she went, confused and disoriented now. She followed the nurse back to her room, all thoughts of escape suddenly replaced by the strange bulk in her hands. The door clicked and the lock sounded, and she glanced around her room quickly. Darting around the bed, she fell into the corner underneath the security camera, pressing her body into the angle of the wall. Slowly, uncertainly, she pulled her hand away from her chest and opened her fingers gingerly.

In the very center of her palm lay paper, folded so many times that it bounced up at her when it was released, and a tiny, dull pencil, the kind her father used to bring home from the golf course. Slowly and carefully, she unfolded the paper, hoping for a note or some promise of an escape. It was blank, but there was more than one piece folded within; they fell apart and scattered to the floor in quarter-page sheets. There was no note or promise, but maybe it was unfair of her to expect that from him. Still, the little, clean pages held a thousand promises of her own making.

She gathered them up slowly, holding them to her chest again, and glancing around the room as if expecting to find someone hiding, watching her. She folded the papers so that they weren't as conspicuous and slid along the wall until she was standing directly under the camera. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand; they would be bringing her lunch soon. There was no time to attempt anything before then. She tucked the hand holding the pencil and paper behind her and cautiously stepped out into view of the camera. She resisted the urge to look at it, though the gentle hum of the machine tempted her. She must appear normal. Everything must seem routine. She sank to the bed as soon as she could, and sent out a silent prayer that no one was watching. Cautiously, working her hardest not to watch the machine that watched her, she slid her hand along the bed and pried her fingers under the mattress. Working blind and one-handed, she stuffed the paper and pencil into the space between the box-spring and mattress. As soon as she was sure that it was out of plain sight, she stood, as casually as she could manage, and made her way to her window.

She gazed out, but her eyes saw nothing of her beloved city. She was trying to focus and plan. There were only a few pieces of paper, she had to use them wisely. If she had any kind of access to the outdoors; an open window, a rooftop visit, she would write an S.O.S. on each and scatter them into the wind. But, that was too improbable and prone to failure. No, she needed something more direct, something that couldn't be missed. Her gaze passed over the window she'd been seeing the cleaning woman in, and she knew her plan in an instant.

Staff came in and out of her room, silent as ever, first with lunch, then dinner. She paid no attention to them. She was fed up with trying to speak to them; it did nothing to humanize her in their eyes. She only watched the city turn from mid-day, to dusk, to night while they came and went. But, as soon as the door closed, her dinner carried away, the sleeping pill tongued and then washed down the sink, she perched on the bed, casually as she could, and carefully pulled the paper and pencil from the mattress.

The last remnants of daylight were spent underneath the camera, tracing letters on the little papers. Once darkness took the room, she switched on the bathroom light and finished her work, but noted how long she had been out of the camera's sight. She needed to look as if she'd been up to nothing suspicious. As soon as she finished, she stashed the writing utensils tight against the wall, still out of the camera's view.

She emerged from the bathroom not long after. As thankful as she was for the scrubbed feeling that lingered on her skin, the single bar of soap would never be kind to her hair that was now stringy and brittle from its over-exposure to the harsh treatment. Her gown now damp from its dual use as her towel, she embraced the slight cold shiver that ran through her; as if she were Below and not dressed properly for the chill of the tunnels. She twisted her hair, wringing it out one more time, not caring about the wet floor that she left behind. On the bed, in full view of the camera, she curled, tucking her feet under the blanket, pulling her gown up and tight, away from the sheets, and leaned against the headboard as she pulled her hair around to the one shoulder.

"_Mine eyes, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on_," she mumbled the quote to herself as she ran her fingers through her wet locks like a comb. Grabbing a section of hair, she examined the brittle strands and split-ends. She smiled, ruefully.

"_I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter_."

She went back to her combing, rolling her eyes at her own superficiality that she couldn't repress. "Oh, Pip, my sweet," she sighed, "I almost dread our return home. Your father may not even recognize me. I used to have such soft hair… I worked hard to make it so. And, my nails were always nicely cared for," she examined the cracked, unpolished, yet clean nails. "And, not that I blame you, little one, but I would swear that I've gained well more than that scale insists upon. We'll be lucky if he doesn't run from us in terror," she joked, letting herself chuckle, and then going quiet while she ran her nails along her scalp, slicking her wet hair back. "No," she assured soberly, "this time… this time, when I return to him, there will be no question. This time, when we see each other again for the first time, we won't hesitate. He'll take me Below and I'll never be forced to leave his arms again." There was a kick at her ribs, and she winced for only a fraction of a second before smiling. "You, my little miracle…" she traced a trail along her swell, "you will never know of this terrible place; not any of it. You will be so loved and so happy that any blemish this place could possibly leave on you will simply vanish. I swear to you, Pip."

A soft light cast its way into the room, and she followed the beam to where the crescent moon hung in the sky. It seemed to smile at her in its crooked way. Slowly, she untangled herself from her blanket and crossed to the window once again.

"_Soft_," she began the quote, but struggled with the next word. She skipped it, jumping to the next bit she knew. "_The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons, Be all my sins remembered_."

She smiled down at herself. "Hamlet," she informed the child. "It will be one of the first things you're exposed to, I'm sure." She twisted the chain about her neck, into her fingers, lost in thought while the crystal tripped along the chain.

"_Though they go mad, they shall be sane_," she whispered, wishing that she was cradled in the curve of that clear, crescent moon. "_Though they sink through the sea, they shall rise again. Though lovers be lost_," her throat tightened and her heart screamed his name, "_love shall not. And death shall have no dominion_.

"Thomas," she whispered, perhaps to herself, perhaps to the child, perhaps to the moon. "Dylan Thomas… the prick," her voice turned bitter. "I hate that poem," she shook her head, her jaw tightening. "I don't see the promise in it that your father does. The optimism is a shield, trying to blind you to the finality of it all. The mad are not suddenly sane. The dead do not rise again. And… the loss of him will always have dominion over my heart."

These were the words of the pessimistic, the 'realistic' lawyer from New York. They were not the musings of the woman whose heart was buried within an other-worldly man from the extraordinary tunnels beneath the city. The duality of her life amused her more now than ever before. It truly was as if she became an entirely different person when she was Below; relaxed, protected, part of a family. Above, she was tough, prepared, and defensive. She glanced around her white room and the skyline just beyond her grasp. So… who was she here?

* * *

She was being shaken, rather vigorously, and she came to consciousness quickly, inhaling sharply as she sat up. Half-risen on her forearm, she found the face of a child, perhaps six or seven years old, his hand still holding her shoulder. His sweet, blue eyes watched her in clear sincerity and anticipation. She studied the boy carefully in the dark room, but he didn't stay close for long.

"Wait!" she called out in whisper, as the child bounded toward the window. He spun to face her, a smile so large that it nearly took her breath away. Silent, he gestured for her to follow him, and then promptly flattened his back against the glass. But, as soon as he made contact, it was no longer a window. Instead, it was just another white wall. On either side of the spot where the child stood were two doors, both blackened as if burnt. The little imp smiled at her as she crawled from the bed in wonder.

She stood before the child, looking at both doors, standing tall and foreboding, both. She knew she had to pick one, and for some reason, she understood that the little boy waited for her to make a decision; he would accompany her.

"I can't," she confessed to the child, who watched her curiously. "I'm afraid. They're both so dark; so terribly dark."

He did not answer. He watched her; he waited. She would have to make a decision sometime; there was nowhere else to go.

She ran her fingers lightly over the doors, her arms stretched out like wings. Both doors blackened her fingers. "Where is the hope?" she begged of the child. "Please. What do _you_ want?"

The little boy shook his head, vehemently, and then pointed at her as if commanding her. She looked between the doors again, despairingly. She knew she was using up precious time, but no matter which door she looked at, they both felt cold and unfriendly.

"What are they? Can you tell me that?"

A voice suddenly echoed in her mind; a child's rasp coming from the little boy in front of her. _'Choose,'_ he whispered in her mind. _'Would you have your child's life, or your own? Choose.'_

"His," she answered the boy aloud, with almost no hesitation. "Of course, his life."

The boy nodded and held his hand out to her. She took it, their palms touching in a familiar warmth, and followed him to the door on her right. She turned the charred handle carefully, but it didn't matter; it crumbled in her grasp.

The door swung open to a dark room. It was sparse and shadowy, but large. A small bed and dresser were all that decorated it, but for the ornate rug that lined the floor. She traced its sweeping pattern into the patch of shadow where she could no longer see. In that shadow, something moved, slowly at first, catching her eye. She watched as a tiny head of blonde curls rolled out of the shadow, revealing a small three-year-old on his back, his eyes crusted closed, and red marks apparent on his pale cheeks.

She ran to him, sliding to her knees, and grasping him under his arms to pull him into her lap. "No," she breathed, her heart sinking in horror as the red marks became clear scars. A 'Y' shaped scar on his right cheek, an 'X' on his left, and one long line drawn across his forehead. They were the same pattern made on her own face when she was attacked. In an instant, she understood; this precious child, her son, carried her scars, and nothing would clear them. No matter where he went, what he did, the scars he inherited from his mother would not go unnoticed.

She traced the scars with her fingertips, trying to smooth them away, but they insisted back at her, burning in anger at her touch. The boy in her arms never stirred, even as she looked for any other scars, lower on his chest and along his arms. He did, however, flinch when she grabbed his elbow, and slowly, carefully, she turned out his arm and raised it into the brighter light. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny red marks covered the inside of the child's arm. They could have been a rash, or bug bites, but for the fact that they lay flush with the rest of the skin, only discolored and aggravated. She ran her fingers over them too, but just as with the scars, it did nothing to soothe them away. As with the scars, there was no way to erase three full years of needles, and drugs, and unnecessarily drawn blood. She cuddled the boy close, trying desperately to find some other explanation for the horrors endured.

"He's a fighter," a voice spoke from the shadows, and she immediately recalled it as her captor's voice. She looked up to find his eyes, but instead, found that there were bars all around her now; they were caged in the middle of the room. "He's like you. He fights, he submits, he fights. I will say," the voice drew closer, "he has three times your strength and cunning. But… he will submit. Soon. He will submit just as you did."

She pulled the child close, shielding him. "This isn't right," she shook her head. "Vincent should have been here. He was supposed to save him."

'_How?'_ the raspy voice of her guide echoed. _'If he didn't know, how could he save him?'_ The boy knelt beside her, outside the cage, but holding the bars, and watching her. _'If you submit, and give your life for his,'_ he pressed his little face against the bars and she was shocked to find Vincent's distinct facial features marking him, _'then you will never be able to tell me of the child.'_

She reached through the bars and touched the face of the tiny Vincent before her, some of his attributes so similar to those of the boy in her arms. "It's all wrong. This isn't… everything's wrong."

'_You're right. It would be best if he'd never been born. End him before anyone can hurt him,'_ the young Vincent's understanding gaze watched her carefully.

"I can't do this to him," she rubbed her cheek against the child in her arms. "I can't let him be tortured. He's just a baby."

'_Come,'_ little Vincent reached through and took her hand. The bars vanished suddenly, as if they'd never been there. He pulled on her to stand, and she quickly arranged her son so that she could carry his limp body single-handedly. He dragged her to a wall where the other blackened door now stood. _'Do you want to see?'_

Hesitant and halting, she reached for the doorknob; it too crumbled in her hand. The door swung open, though, and she and her guide stepped into the golden glow of Vincent's chamber. It all looked, smelled, even felt, just as it had the last time she saw it. There was so much beauty and comfort in it that she had to wonder why the door had been so forbidding. As if in answer, the boy touched her arm and pointed to the bed.

She recognized herself immediately; the green eyes that twitched in thought, the dark blonde hair that fell in soft cascades, and the slight body that curled beneath Vincent's embracing blankets. But, as she drew closer, she knew that there was something wrong with her twin in the bed… something terribly wrong.

"How has she been today?"

It was Father's voice and she spun to find him. He came through the entrance, with Vincent in tow.

"The same," Vincent answered sadly. "She doesn't speak; not a word or a sound, no tears, just… nothing."

"Good evening, Catherine," Father called and touched the Catherine in the bed, but she did not budge. "Have you been able to make her eat?"

"Tiny morsels here and there. It's not enough, Father."

"Vincent, perhaps," he took a breath to collect a bit of courage, "perhaps it's time we sent her somewhere more suited to her needs."

"Father…" Vincent gaped.

"I'm sorry, son, but she is beyond any of our capacity. The horrors she went through, we can only imagine, but she knows, and it has stolen her from us, Vincent. Catherine isn't here anymore. She returned to us, and then she vanished into thin air. You know; you've felt it, I know you have."

"NO!" Vincent screamed, tears flooding his eyes as he backed away from Father, against the base of the bed. "I can bring her back, Father. I can!" Father was suddenly gone as Vincent crawled into the bed, cuddling close to his Catherine, and holding her so fiercely that their observer became green with envy. "Catherine," he whispered in her ear, "come back to me. The nightmare is over, my love. Come back to me," he pleaded, losing himself in sobs for a moment. He pulled the hair carefully away from her expressionless face and nuzzled at her cheek. "Catherine… don't punish yourself. You had to do it. You had to! It was the only way to survive. It was for the best, Catherine. The child would have suffered. It was for the best."

Slowly, the catatonic Catherine shifted, her eyes rising to her mirror image, who was watching this scene in horror. She pushed the blankets off and climbed to her feet, easily leaving Vincent behind, and squaring off with her observer. "It was for the best," she whispered. "I felt his blood spill over my hands. It made a river along the floor, and it was the deepest red I have ever seen in my life." She glanced back at her lover, crumpled in his bed. "It was for the best."

"Please," she begged, holding the little toddler tighter to her chest than ever before. "Let him help you. Let him heal you."

"He will try," Catherine smiled so serenely that it almost seemed plastic. "He will never give up. But… I am a mouse," her eyes shifted away vaguely, "and I have made a hole. And, I am deep, deep down where no one will ever find me."

She backed away, clutching the child close. "No, this isn't right. Why? Why? This is wrong!" she watched Catherine's gaze shifting with each of her words, and with a quick glance to the child in her arms, she suddenly held him out to the lost woman. "Take him!" she insisted. "Take him! Love him! Be his mother! This is your second chance!"

Catherine giggled manically as she stared at the child. "I can't do that," she laughed. "He's dead. Go on… go on, look at him. He's been dead since the moment he was in your arms."

She shook her head slowly, refusing to believe it. When she'd finally gathered enough courage, she looked down at the tiny child in her arms. He could be sleeping, but for the fact that his chest had no rise or fall, and there was no breath when she set her face close to his. "No," she whispered, tears falling easily. "No!" she pulled him back to her chest, cradling him tight.

"Perfect," a voice glided in behind her, and she spun to face her captor, standing in the doorway she'd come from, with the doctor suddenly at his heels. "I knew he would submit soon. Mark this on the charts, doctor, and put his body somewhere safe for later."

"Don't come near!" she warned, backing away, clinging fiercely to her son.

"It doesn't matter now," Catherine breathed, making her way back to the bed, as if a ghost, "he's dead. Everything is dead."

"No!" she yelled at herself. "No, stop saying that!" The doctor moved toward her and she backed into the doors of the large wardrobe. "Don't come near us!" she threatened wildly. "Don't take another step!"

"What's the difference?" her captor moved closer as well. "He has finally submitted to his fate. Perhaps it's time you did too."

"Stay away from him! Get away!" she was pressed against the wardrobe, its design making impressions in her back, and her face buried in her child's blonde curls.

'_Catherine?'_ the small raspy voice of her guide split through her mind, and suddenly the little six-year-old Vincent was there before her, closing in on her, his arms outstretched. _'You can't keep him. Give him to me.'_

"No!" she refused, surprising herself. "Stay away from us! All of you! Vincent?" she cast a pleading call to the man in the bed, but he didn't hear.

'_He isn't yours to keep, Catherine. Just give him to me,'_ the boy inched closer.

"Stop it! Get away from us! Vincent! Help me!"

"Doctor, if you would be so kind as to retrieve the child," her captor moved in as well.

"Get away!" she struck at the doctor, coming closer and closer. She nearly lost her grip on the little boy, and sank to the floor in an attempt to catch him. "Get away! Stay away from us! Vincent! Vincent, help me! Vincent!"

* * *

"Vincent!"

The woman in the monitor screen woke herself with her screaming. The lone observer watched her grope in the darkness for some remnant of her nightmare, but there was none to be found. She settled back into her bed, uncertain and afraid.


	7. Chapter 7

The nightmares were only getting worse. None of them would leave her in the waking hours, and only half of them made any kind of sense. She would lay in bed for hours trying to interpret them, praying that Vincent's Bond to her had somehow transcended whatever barriers had been inhibiting it, and was now trying to pass on some sort of message from him. It seemed impossible and ridiculous, but it was the only hope she had to cling to that Vincent was coming.

Weeks were passing again, as if slipping through her fingers; sand through a sieve. From what she could see from her window, it was beginning to cool off in the outside world. Clothing looked a bit more bulky than it had been. She tried to trace the weeks so that she could account for it. She was fairly certain that she had been held for approximately three and a half months. She had conceived in May.

May 26th, 1989.

The date seemed to be the only constant certainty she could afford the child. He was created on May 26th… in a deep, dark cavern that should have been his father's tomb. Life, not death, emerged from that cave that night, and why she had ever hesitated to rejoice in it, she just couldn't remember anymore.

She began stealing glances in her examinations at the doctor's notes and charts. According to them, it was late September; she had just started out her second trimester, but the baby's growth suggested that she should be close to beginning her third. They were baffled by such extreme abnormality, but she found some strange comfort in this. It put at ease all of her fears that emerged in the intense black of the evening hours; a fear of a life without Vincent, a life where he was never real to begin with. But, none to fear, the proof of him grew with unprecedented strength and speed within her very body.

Since she was gifted with the scraps of paper, the doctor hadn't spoken a word to her. He barely even touched her, but for what was necessary for his tests. All of her health was now conducted by the Asian nurse and her cold, sharp fingers. She didn't complain, not even to the nothingness of her room. The doctor had risked so much to give her even that glimmer of hope; she could expect nothing more from him.

All hours that were not taken up in examinations and tests were now spent beside her window. The slips of paper were stowed away, hidden in the sill, blending with the blinds so that no one would notice. She sat in vigil, waiting, hoping that anyone watching her would just assume her behavior stemmed from depression and cabin-fever. Truly, she was watching the building across the street, waiting, begging for the only friend she had left in the world.

October arrived, too quickly, and it occurred to her, fleetingly, that she had missed her birthday. Days were slowly turning into weeks, slipping right through her hands, but she saw no one, save for the nurse, guards, and doctor. She tried keeping herself occupied with teaching her unborn child, or some illusion of teaching that she was clinging to. But, as the daylight hours grew shorter, her depression was spiking, and she found herself talking less and less to the babe. As soon as she noticed it in herself, she would find a poem, a lullaby, anything to recite or sing, but all forms of conversation or commentary she was having with the child were gone. There were only poems and lullabies now, and most weren't really meant for him, they were her own; a memory of a happier time, a reflection of her situation, or a reassurance that she still knew the piece.

"_As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest_

_In one of thine own, from that which thou departest;_

_And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st_

_Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest_."

Sometimes the piece was meant for both of them. Always recited with love, but most harkened to longing; for herself, for Vincent, for the babe, for time wasted, for time that would be taken, for the hours, days, weeks that were lost as she sat there at the window.

Harsh, blinding light spilled into the dark little room from the hallway as the nurse, her nose ever-upturned at her patient, entered, set the tray on the bed, and left without a word or a second glance. She climbed, with difficulty, from her vigil spot on the floor, and wandered to the dinner, left rather unceremoniously. She laughed to herself at the presentation before her; they'd taken to putting together courses of different plates, and plate covers to boot. Not only more nutrition in her advancing pregnancy, but some false sense of dignity provided to the mother… the vessel. Did they honestly think a few dish covers and well-folded napkins would help her constant depression, or the aches in her legs and back? She suddenly felt like she was right back again, three years ago, the day before she was attacked, with Tom and her father convinced that a manicure and a nice dinner could repair the emptiness of her existence. They couldn't see, they didn't want to see, she needed something that they weren't willing to give her; freedom! And Vincent.

She cleared the extravagant and unnecessary accessories of her dinner, and took the plate and spoon to the window, leaning against it, having to shift onto her hip, not yet used to the extra weight of her stomach. Dusk was just leaving the city below her, and the moon was trying to peek out from the soft clouds in the purple sky. It was a half-moon this night, looking as if the sky, freckled with the beginnings of stars, was trying so hard to wink at her. She sighed, almost disheartened by such a happy, silly gesture. What about her life deemed such a gleeful expression appropriate?

And that's when the light in the building across the street came on. She started off of the window, nearly dropping her food all over the floor. She watched, her wide eyes greedy for the sight she'd been longing for, for weeks. Soon, a figure moved in front of the window. Not the cleaning woman she'd been hoping for, but a silhouette distinctly male; with a tall clean-cut shape, and a brimmed hat to top off the look. He was scattering items throughout the room, in no particular order that she could tell.

Fumbling and clumsy with nerves, she dropped her food onto the bed and dove to her regular spot on the floor. With a quick, panicked glance over her shoulder, she decided not to let the possible observers behind the camera to worry her. For this moment, all that mattered was her mission, whether her captor saw or not didn't matter, as long as someone received her message. With shaking hands, she pulled the slips of paper from their hiding place, arranged them appropriately, and then pressed them to the window, both her palms flat against the paper. She looked around herself, and the dark room, and then glanced back at the opposite window. The man was still preoccupied with his work.

She didn't try to keep anything neat; she just let the papers fall as she bolted for the bathroom, as fast as possible, and flipped on the light. It wasn't much, but it wasn't pure darkness either; hopefully it would make it easier for her neighbor to read the note. Just as quickly, she slid back into her spot, and arranged and placed the papers again. She watched him move about, her paranoia beginning to kick in now, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder at the security camera. The man finally stopped, and she held her breath, waiting, before he finally pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable at a long table.

Her forehead fell against the cool glass while she breathed heavily. Her shaking was beginning to subside while she watched the man begin to read. He had no interest in the window behind him, but she didn't budge. She resolved, quickly, to not move from that spot while there was still a possibility that he might turn and see her.

* * *

"It dances. Have you ever noticed?"

She shook her head, the voice above her calling her to consciousness. In a quick study of her surroundings, she inhaled sharply. Her body was slumped in the crook of the wall and the window. The slips of paper were nowhere to be found, and her captor, with his pointed nose and lips, stood over her, the crystal necklace dangling from his fingers as he studied it closely. She clutched at her neck, but of course, there was nothing there. Her hopes, her dreams, Vincent, dangled from those long, sharp fingers.

"Not ballet; nothing so formal and polite. No, it's something exotic, primal. It dances to drums and pipes, fleeting and teasing."

She watched, terrified, as he spun the chain around his fingers, the crystal itself now resting in his palm. Some nervous impulse made her want to cry out, to beg him not to destroy it. She kept silent.

"Don't be afraid," his maddeningly calm voice instructed, his eyes never leaving his prize. "You're closer to your freedom than you think. Your little stunt changes nothing. Well," the chain laced tighter into his fingers, "only this."

His gaze wandered, and then lingered on the moon and the distant traffic outside the window. "Sometimes I think I see him, stalking the streets, hunting for you. Behind a street lamp, then alongside a taxi, then inside the gutter drains. Always evading, ever searching, his eyes hungering for his prey."

She was shaking, and no matter the tightness of her muscles, nothing could stop it. She fought the impulse to look out the window herself, if only to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her desperation. He was looking back at the crystal now, and she would have devised a way to snatch it from his hand if only his words didn't keep her rooted to the floor.

"He gave this to you, didn't he? A gesture of devotion? A mark upon you, claiming you as his own? What is it about you that haunts him?

"I made friends with a hound dog once. He was underfed, boney, and full of fleas, ticks, patches of baldness all through his coat. And that dog saw no fault in me. I did no wrong in his eyes. His love was unconditional, and it was the first true love I had ever found in any creature.

"I remember the moment when I snapped his neck. And, as the light faded from his eyes, I could see how he still loved me. Even as I held him, he looked at me, and I knew. That's when I was sure that I would never again feel that unconditional love from any living creature.

"We all die. The light will go out in all of us one day." He stopped for a moment, and for the first time in his ramblings, his gaze fell on her. "What will _you_ see when the light goes out? They say that your whole life passes before your eyes. Will you laugh? Will you cry? Regret?"

She was working her hardest to fight her fear, but when that seemed to be a lost cause, she kept her eyes averted, gulping air in hopes of ingesting courage. It didn't seem to matter; he was an animal, a beast, and he smelled the fear on her.

"You call to him in your dreams. You wake yourself screaming his name. Do you want to know what name I cry out in the dead of night?

"Do you ever find yourself wondering, in all this peaceful stillness and silence, what name will the child cry out in his dreams?"

With a pursed smile, barely recognizable in the shadows, he backed away from her. He seemed to glide to the door, and as the knob turned and light broke into the room, she lurched forward, her eyes locked on the glittering crystal.

"Please," she begged, crying now. "Please don't."

With no word or change in expression, no pity or pride, he pressed through the door, the crystal quickly stowed away in his pocket, as darkness engulfed the room again.

She fell back on her hands, tears coursing down her face as she half-heartedly scanned the room for any evidence of her escape attempts. Everything was gone. There was only herself, and the room as it had been the day she arrived. Slowly, she walked her hands up the wall, pulling herself to standing, with more effort than was warranted. She made her way to the bathroom, shut off the soft light, and then slid into the bed, clutching the pillow, and letting the world melt away.

* * *

"Mommy!" a little voice screamed, and she spun in the center of the room, trying to identify it.

"Mommy!" it came from somewhere else now and she launched herself toward the bathroom, her whole body making contact with the door, but it was locked.

"Mommy!"

She sprinted back to the other door. She pounded, and kicked and shoved, but the door was immovable.

"Mommy!"

She threw herself against the window, but it was as stoic as ever. She pounded and kicked and screamed at it, sure that she could see something in the sky; a tiny hand reaching for her.

"Mommy!"

"Let me out!" she screamed as she began beating on the walls as she traced the room. "Let me out! Give him to me! He's mine! He's mine!"

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

She stopped and turned, and there, in the center of the room, was a doll. It was tiny, and made of such soft rubber that it nearly looked like skin. And, as she approached it, its voice-box just kept insisting; "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

Slowly, she knelt beside it, and reached out to hold the rubber baby, but it suddenly vanished under her fingers. Her hands made contact with a soggy patch of carpet, and she recoiled from it, throwing herself backwards so that her back hit the window. Quickly, using only the window, she clawed her way back to her feet, and began beating on the glass again.

Only when she saw the streaks of red on the window did she stop. Drying blood covered her hands and she had smeared it all over the glass. She looked down at herself and found her gown soaked with blood from hip to base. And the deep red ooze seemed to still be coming, as she watched it drip down the inside of both of her legs.

"Help me!" she pleaded through tears while she clutched at herself in futility. "Somebody help me!"


	8. Chapter 8

Hello readers!

I'm back from vaca with a new chapter. Another will be up soon. We're near the end now.

* * *

Depression is a dark and terrible place. But, when hopelessness inhabits it, the whole world seems to grow dim, dirty, and worthless.

And so it did. Daylight hours grow shorter as Fall progressed in New York City. Not that she cared; she was napping in the daytime more frequently now. It wasn't always because she was tired, just that the nighttime was more comforting. The night; billowing blackness hanging heavy, looming; it understood her.

November arrived with the bitter air of the season, and sometimes at night she could taste it on her tongue. And with the bitter air came bitter thoughts. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw rivers of blood. Every dream left her with the image of that lifeless three-year-old in her arms. Sometimes dreams co-existed with reality. Sometimes Vincent came to her and promised he was coming; a kiss left behind in the corner of her mouth. Sometimes he appeared and raged at her for not fighting harder, blaming both their child's and her own death on her weakness. Once, Joe was there, telling her that it was her own fault for choosing Vincent, and then Elliot was there screaming in her ear of love and devotion and a normal life with him.

At times, she found a comfortable spot on her side and pretended that if she rolled onto her back, Vincent's hands would be there to catch her up and cradle her in his arms. Sometimes she did it, and the act inevitably left her sobbing, alone, groping for her lover's hands where there were only sheets and a pillow.

All conversations with her child stopped. Every time she tried to make herself talk to him, something deep inside her chest ached, a voice in her head cried out, '_you're not his mother, you're his vessel_', and her arms suddenly felt heavy, remembering the weight of that toddler in her dreams.

November was leaving, taking with it her hope of ever escaping. She laid in bed at night, imagining Vincent finding her there, the child ripped from her womb, leaving her just another bloody mess in a crime photo that she used to spend her days staring at. Occasionally, she would long for that mental image, if only to see him pull her body close to his, and kiss her, and swear his undying love for her once more.

Her body felt so out of control. She was bigger and heavier everywhere, and every bit of sense in her screamed for Mary, Olivia, Nancy, Lena, her own mother, any woman who would tell her what was normal, and what was uniquely Vincent about this pregnancy. Nothing made sense, even to the doctor, and all that pride and security that she used to have in the face of his concern, had turned to pure fear. All she could hear now was Vincent's confession to her during Paracelsus' infiltration;

"_I killed Anna. These hands ripped apart my mother's flesh. Tore me from her womb; I was born in blood."_

She wouldn't believe it then and she didn't believe it now, but the mental image haunted her every time the child kicked and pressed against her. It was the first time she understood, truly understood Vincent's debilitating fear of himself.

December rolled in quietly, light dustings of snow appearing in the shadowy light of the mocking moon, but was gone after only an hour or two with the sun. She'd stopped trying to sleep through the night. She was usually in and out on a continual basis; a few hours awake, a few hours of sleep, and then a good portion of the earliest hours of the morning awake and dreaming all at once. Until the exams, at least. They were every day now; 7:30am, without fail.

The guards had begun disappearing a week or so before. They knew, they could see, that she would put up no more fight. She was broken, resigned, compliant. And, on top of that, she had grown too large and clumsy to be any real threat. By early December, only the nurse came for her, and the guards weren't seen until she actually entered the surgical room.

The soft falling snow pulled her from her bed. The clock on her nightstand read 3:12am, but she paid no attention to it. The snow fell in the tiniest of crystals, gliding, possibly not even making it to the ground. She wondered if anyone below her could even see it. Or, was her ivory tower the only vantage point from which to witness such beauty?

She raked her fingers along the window, tracing the tiny white flurries that flew by her, the corners of her lips pulling in a soft smile. Snow always made her smile. She remembered being very small and her father dancing with her in the falling snow. She remembered a blizzard, a terrible blizzard, and her mother worried because her father hadn't come home from the office yet. And she remembered sitting in the window seat with her mother, naming the snowflakes, keeping little Cathy occupied and happy while Mommy watched every cab and pedestrian until Daddy finally made it home, looking like a strangely sophisticated snowman. She remembered being tucked in and kissed goodnight while the snow piled up outside her bedroom window, and she dreamed of her whole house being encased in the white; buried and safe.

The snow stopped. She turned back to her bed, sighing as that smile fell away. The sheets were a wreck. She had tossed and turned so much in her dreams and her fits, that she never bothered to fix anything. Occasionally, she would leave for an exam and return to find her room immaculate, but that was becoming increasingly rare now.

She acknowledged the time on the clock, but didn't let it affect her. 3:32am would have been an unforgivable hour in her previous life. Anyone who woke her and turned out to not be Vincent, would almost certainly get an earful. Now… it was simply inevitable. Deciding to take the opportunity to do something with her hands, she began pulling the sheets and blankets off of the bed and sorting them to be re-fit.

She fluffed out the fitted sheet and tossed it across the bed once she had found the long end. From one corner of the base of the mattress, she wrapped the elastic material around it, and then made to reach across to the opposite end. She scoffed slightly at the large stomach that now impeded her. She hadn't tried to do anything like this since she'd grown so large. She wasn't used to not having the reach or flexibility. She worked out the fitted sheet, moving about the bed much more than she'd ever had to before, and then found the end of the flat sheet and fluffed it over the base of the bed as well. She tucked the bottom under, and then moved along the sides as she went. She was just finishing the last side when her hands slid under the mattress and contacted a foreign object. She froze for a moment, trying to feel what it was before she extracted it.

An oblong wooden shape and the distinct sound of paper crinkling solidified the objects in her mind. She must have missed one of the slips of paper when she had made her S.O.S. And, true enough, when she pulled her hand from the mattress, there was a slip of blank paper and the little golf pencil. She clutched it close to her, and then backed into the corner under the camera.

Her mind was racing. The little slip of paper-hope set her heart pounding. What could she do with it? She glanced around the room and then up at the camera. She never knew when he was watching. All needed to appear normal.

She finished making the bed while her mind reeled with possibilities. Nothing was safe. Everything came with risks now. Whatever she did, she'd have to understand that it guaranteed nothing. Even if everything went according to plan, there was no certainty that anyone would make it to her in time.

She knew her only recourse, her only option, and for the hours that she had, she hid under the camera and marked the slip of paper as best she could with the worn pencil. When she finished, she came back to the bed and waited, watching the numbers tick away on her little clock.

The nurse opened the door, precisely on schedule, and she took a breath for courage. She pushed herself off of the bed and went into the hall. As soon as the door closed, so began the last hope that she had left.

"Would you talk to me, please?" she appealed to the woman, even as she was ignored completely. She moved quickly to keep up. "Have you been outside today?" she caught the nurse's arm, and the nurse tensed in response, ready for the possibility of a fight. "Do they let you go outside?" It was the first time she'd ever considered that the nurse may not speak English, so she decided to speak slower and more precise. But, before she could do anything, the nurse just kept walking, so she caught the woman again. "You've got to help me, please!" her emotions were getting the better of her and she couldn't control her desperation. "They're gonna take away my baby, you know that! If you could…" she tried to calm herself and consider what she was asking of the nurse. "If you get outside, if you could just give _this_," she shoved the folded note into the nurse's hand and wrapped her fingers around it, "to a police officer; _any_ police officer. Please?" she begged for the final time, appealing to any humanity or decency in the woman.

The nurse turned, leading with her indifferent up-turned nose, and kept walking, expecting her patient to follow her just as she had been for six months now.

She breathed. She had done it, and now there was nothing left but to pray. The exam began as usual, and when she lay on the cold, metal table, she watched the nurse wander over to the guard in the suit… and hand him her note. It was just as easy as that. She set her jaw and turned her gaze to the ceiling, embarrassed, humiliated, thwarted once again. She swore that she could hear the laughter in their minds at the pitiful sight of her, at her pitiful escape attempts, at her pitiful tears at night.

'Do not hope,' she told herself as the heartbeat drummed on the monitor. 'Hope brings pain; hope gives you nothing. It takes all of your wishes and your plans and it gathers them all in one place so that they can be crushed all the easier. All of my dreams, all of my wishing, they come to nothing. I am going to die. My son… no, not mine; he ceased to be mine the day I was too much of a coward to tell his father of his existence. I failed him that day; I lost him. This innocent child, _Vincent's_ son, he will die too. Perhaps not right away, but a quicker death would be merciful. No hope. No light.'

"_So you must not be frightened_," Vincent's voice sang in her ear, "_if a sadness rises up before you, larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloudshadows, passes over your hands, and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hands. It will not let you fall_."

The door of her room closed behind her, and she made her way to the window, depression and fatigue pulsing through her body. The sun was bright in the sky now, and the light drenched her face in tones of yellow and red.

"Vincent," she pleaded quietly, tired of the mantra, "where are you?"


	9. Chapter 9

These last few chapters are going to come pretty fast. Keep your eyes open. I feel ridiculously accomplished and I hope you feel as satisfied at the end as I did when I wrote it. I know it's been a hard journey in this one. Thanks for sticking with me.

Catherine Maya

* * *

It would be soon. For days now she'd been feeling little pains, twinges, low in her abdomen. Her swell seemed to be dropping lower as well; an odd sensation, and even more odd when trying to walk, as if something were in the way of her legs. She was exhausted as well, so between the discomfort and fatigue, she felt no guilt in spending the time in her room, curled up in the bed. Any day now; she could feel it.

'So excited,' she'd think when the child kicked, 'so eager to greet this horrible world. How do I tell you? How do I explain that there is nothing beautiful here for you? How to show you that the only safety for you is to just stay put, right where you are? Tuck deeper inside, hide in my body, and perhaps one day they'll grow bored and leave you in peace. The world has nothing to offer you now.'

But there was no deterring him. This baby wanted out, and he wouldn't be put off. What did he think he would find outside? What was he so eager to see? For a second, she imagined that he was eager to see _her_. She imagined their eyes meeting for the first time, this tiny person that she'd helped to create. She imagined holding him for the first time. She imagined him growing; the toddler from her dream, who ambled into her arms after waking from a nightmare, and laughed at the silly faces she made when she read to him. He was a young boy who fled to her arms for a kiss before he did anything. He was an adolescent who made sure no one was looking before he let her touch him. A teenager, who fought with her with the ferocity of his father. A grown man who loved his family, and had the leadership abilities befitting Vincent's son.

Just for a second.

As the outside world grew dim with the setting sun, so did the short-lived light in her eyes. She let herself drift into sleep easier than she ever had before.

* * *

"Don't laugh," a gruff voice called her from sleep. "Don't laugh, Cathy. Don't you dare laugh!"

She blinked hard, moaning in protest at being disturbed. Her eyes took a second to adjust to the shadowy room, but the face before her was clear. "Daddy?"

"Hi, sweetheart," his large smile spread as he set his arms on the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing here?" she shook her head and raised herself up a bit.

"You needed someone to talk to," he explained as if it should be perfectly obvious. "Here I am. Scoot over, Cath," he kept his smile as he stood and slid into the bed beside her.

She slid over to give him room, and as she did, she noticed that the bedroom was different. The walls were colorful, there were toys and books everywhere, and her bed now included a beautiful, white, sweeping canopy. It was her old room from childhood, and she suddenly realized that she'd never felt so safe in her life. Her father wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his chest.

"So…" he began, that smile ever-present, "I'm going to be a grandfather."

She looked up at him, her green eyes glistening already. Her mouth dropped open, and with everything in her, she wanted to smile at him, but it quickly turned to tears, and she fell back into his chest. "I'm so frightened, daddy!" she sobbed. "I don't know what to do. I'm so terribly afraid!"

"I know," he rubbed her back gently while she cried. "Hey," his voice was suddenly cheerful again, "do you remember that summer in Connecticut when you made friends with that girl next door?"

"Becky," she nodded, her tears slowing. "Becky Tranchenberg."

"Becky Tranchenberg," he hugged his daughter tighter, "with the long brown hair and high-pitched laugh."

"She always wore those long peasant skirts with a scarf tied around her waist," she remembered.

"Well," he shrugged, "it was the '60s." They laughed together for a moment, reveling in the sound. "You were thirteen that summer, and you insisted on being treated as an adult, remember?" She nodded quietly. "You'd make sure that you were up before me so that you could make coffee, and have the paper ready by the time I made it to that kitchen."

She chuckled in embarrassment. "That says something, doesn't it? When coffee and the paper in the morning were my idea of adulthood?"

"It was adorable," he assured her. "And I encouraged you."

"You even taught me how to iron," she cuddled deeper into his side. "I was like the June Cleaver of the eighth grade."

He chuckled. "Do you remember the afternoon that I left you and Becky alone at the cabin while I went into town?"

She smiled and nodded. "We felt so grown up. It was like the house was ours. We felt like we owned the world that day."

"And what did you do while I was gone, Cathy?"

"We took a walk in the woods," her brow furrowed at the memory. "The sun was so bright, and everything looked so happy, we couldn't be inside even just one more minute."

"And as you were walking," Charles added, "Becky picked up a stick."

"She was tapping the trees with it," she remembered, "and then I picked one up. We started playing, using them as swords, imagining that we were having this grand duel."

"And then?" he prompted.

"One of us, we never knew which, swung too high. We didn't see the beehive until it was at our feet and the bees had begun to swarm us."

"And you were so shocked that you stumbled backward, fell, and cut your leg on a low branch."

"That hurt more than the bee stings," she winced as her nerves remembered the pain.

"And Becky just stood there, screaming. She couldn't move. She just stood there, screaming and crying."

"Everything happened so fast. The bees were swarming us, and Becky was screaming, and I was bleeding."

"But you picked yourself up," he encouraged.

"I grabbed Becky's hand and I just started running. It was the only thing I could think to do. She almost tripped a couple of times, but I never let go of her. I made her run, even though the bees chased us. And then, I pushed her into the pond between our houses, and I jumped in after her."

"She yelled at you afterwards," he interjected with amusement.

"She was mad that I ruined her skirt, she said. I asked her if she was happy to be alive. She told me to not be so dramatic."

"You've never been dramatic a day in your life," he scoffed. "Incurably serious, yes. But, never dramatic."

"She stormed home, and left me there in the middle of the pond. I didn't talk to Becky much after that."

"And, when I made it back, you were already in the bathroom. You had bandaged your leg; not well, but it was a passable effort; and you were trying to find the recipe for the poultice your mother used to make for bee stings."

"I was so angry that I couldn't find it. It always worked so much better than what the doctors gave me."

"I was so proud and in awe of your bravery, Cathy. You never froze. You've always been that way," his voice went quiet, the smile dropping away. "Your eyes have always been set to purpose; ever onward. If something blocks your goal, you simply charge through, conquer it, and move on. There's never been a moment that you've frozen." He twisted so that they were making eye contact and made sure that she understood every word. "Stephen Bass held you back; you let him go, and you moved on. Tom Gunther kept you like an untouchable prize; you tossed him aside before he could damage your spirit. I… I wanted to keep you close; my little princess with everything her heart desired. It was difficult to understand that giving you everything meant letting you go. And then… Vincent."

She broke eye contact and sank deeper into her father's side.

"He's kept you at arm's length for so long, and he's found a way to thwart your goals at every turn…" he leaned into her ear, a father to his little child, "but, once again, my Cathy never gives in to fear, or hardship, or some notion of the impossible." He nudged her, his gaze directing her to a focus point; the tiny, blonde toddler sleeping peacefully beside her suddenly. "Once again, _my_ strong Catherine finds a way to achieve the supposedly 'impossible'."

She gently caressed the sleeping child's forehead and cheek. She swept her fingers through his soft curls and into the curves of his little ears. There was no keeping her hands off of him.

"He looks a little like me," her father observed proudly.

She grinned, her eyes sparkling for the first time in longer than she could remember. "He does a little."

"You've created something beautiful, sweetheart. Out of what so many considered fearful and ugly and wrong, you've created something so unimaginably beautiful." She gasped with tears, shuddering against him, and he held her tighter. "And, no matter how you've blamed yourself through these months, Cathy, he'll always be yours. _You_ made him. _You've_ fed him, you've loved him, you've done everything in your power to protect him, and no one in this world or any other can take that from you. No matter what happens to either of you, no matter what might be said or done, he will always be yours."

"I just…" she shook her head, trying to clear it all, but her gaze ever-present on the boy. "I just feel so helpless. I'm so alone, daddy."

"Cathy," he twisted her, forcing her attention back on him, his eyes deep and serious, "you can't afford to freeze now. You have to be strong."

"What?" she shook her head, trying to see her son, but unable to turn away from her father.

"The bees are swarming you, Cathy, and now is not the time to just stand still and cry! You have to get up. You have to run! There is no promise of success in anything we do in this life, but we have to try. The bees are swarming you, and you can either stand there and let them kill you, or you can be sure that, at the least, the person who can't help himself makes it to safety. Do you understand?"

She did not acknowledge or deny him. "I'm afraid."

"Of course you are," his smile returned. "But fear never stopped my little girl." He caught her chin and examined her face carefully, "Is that my Catherine in there?"

* * *

Her eyes opened slowly, coming gently back into reality, as if on a hazy cloud. It was the first time, in quite a long time, that her dreams hadn't shocked her into consciousness. She lay there, blinking, unmoving, the shadows dancing in blues and greys across her body and up her face. Her father's words still rang in her ears, and she merely lay there, absorbing them. His message was perfectly clear, and she surprised herself at her lack of doubt of the truth and reality of the dream.

Her deep green eyes scanned the room, her head never moving to finish the sweep, as she once again evaluated her situation. How would she escape the swarming bees? The bedside clock changed, and her gaze lingered on the numbers for a moment. It was the little electronic hourglass, and her sand was close to running out.

Her gaze swept up to the door. It was late; the compound truly was weakest at night, if only the damned door weren't locked. Silently, she reviewed the mental map of the building that she had constructed just from her trips to and from the examinations. Out the door, follow the hall to the left. The hospital room was at the end of the hall, and adjacent to it was the door to the staircases. Through the door, up the stairs took her to the roof access, down the stairs… well, that was where the map ended. But down meant street level, and that was all she really cared about. For a moment, just a moment, the whimsical thought occurred to her of going to the roof instead of the street. They would all expect and try to chase her downward. No; to the roof to find Vincent, and then wrapped around him as his powerful arms carried them down the side of the building to a back alley where they could steal away Below.

A heavy tremor ran through her abdomen, and then a sharp ache tore through behind it. She gasped, clutching at herself, curling under her covers. The ache lingered and she writhed a bit, trying to relieve herself of the discomfort. Another pain, like a cramp that wouldn't let go and she held her swell, pushing the blankets off as her mind raced and discomfort took an unyielding hold. She pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed, as the cramp began to release, and she breathed through the pain as it eventually subsided.

Her thoughts whirled and swirled, a thousand instincts of confusion and fear, trying to be soothed by clear logic, which only brought on a sudden wave of panic.

'It's time,' the quiet, calm voice in her head whispered to her. 'It was a contraction; your first true contraction. Just breathe; it will pass.'

'No!' she argued back at it. 'No, I need more time! Not now! I don't know what I'm doing! What am I going to do? No, not now! It's too fast. It's all happening too fast!'

When her body did finally settle, she sat rigid for a while, evaluating herself. There was still something strange, some residue that lingered in her body.

'You're in labor, Catherine,' that small voice whispered. 'Everything is going to feel strange. You've never done anything like this before.'

Her own rationale made her want to scream with impatience and fury. There was nothing she could do now. Perhaps, if the nurse could be caught in a moment of weakness when bringing in a meal, she could try to make a break for it, but by that time, who knew how close her contractions may be. How far could she really get between her size and the sudden aches slowing her down?

Shyly, she glanced over her shoulder at the camera trained on her. Slow and precise, she slid backwards in the bed, taking the pillow with her, and climbed off the other side, falling into the corner under the camera, and sinking to the floor. So she sat, and waited, trying to formulate something of a final plan.

Hours were spent straining for sounds beyond her room. Whatever happened, she knew that no one could know that the labor pains had begun. If someone approached the room, she needed to be sure that all appeared normal. The pains were infrequent, but sudden, and in the first few hours, she had bit her lips to near bleeding, trying to suppress any sound that attempted to emerge. She shifted constantly against the corner of the walls, unable to find any comfort, no matter which way she twisted or turned. Dawn was breaking when she finally resigned to allowing herself a patch of floor to pace on.

Moving felt good. Her back ached relentlessly, but pacing seemed to ease a bit of the tension, even if it was simply her own mental tension; she at least felt as though she was doing something. Determination made its way into her body while she paced. There was no escape, she conceded it, but that didn't mean that all was lost. Regardless of what happened, she vowed to bear it alone, even if that meant delivering the babe on her own in the diminutive bathroom. She swore, then and there, to never yield to anyone's hands but Vincent's.

Another contraction tore through her suddenly and she fell into the corner, hand over her mouth to stifle the squeaks that emerged through her deep breathing. Oh, how the world seemed to be crashing down around her with each debilitating wave.

Dawn peeked in; sweet tones of pink and yellow; seemingly mocking her. She breathed against the wall, no position providing comfort for the clenching muscles in her back and hips. She longed for something, anything, to grab hold of and hang from, praying for that relief of the stretching vertebrae. There was nothing high or sturdy enough, and she bemoaned her discomfort as quietly as she possibly could.

True, hazy December sunlight shone now, and she shrank from it, unsure of why she feared it. Possibly because it revealed her, in all its unyielding light; slumped in the corner of her room, trying not to make a sound. Upon closer examination, she knew that this was only a piece of her paranoia.

The digital clock ticked; 6:59am. She had forgotten; she would be visiting the exam room in half-an-hour. Surely, they would notice the beginnings of labor within their usual regime of poking and prodding. She knew already that she would never be able to hide a contraction from them, in those close quarters, for that length of time. Panic was setting in; there was nothing she could do, nowhere she could hide. She swallowed through another light ache, the foreshadowing of a full-blown contraction, and set her mind to her only option. She would have to make a break for it. There was only she and the nurse in that trip now, and she knew that breaking away from the nurse would be no trouble; it was the aftermath that worried her. There had to be a way. There just had to be.

She paced, mentally preparing herself, falling against the wall and breathing through a labor pain, and then pacing some more. 7:15am; she could do this, she _had_ to. 7:20am; the plan was ridiculous and rash, but it was her only hope. 7:25am; she swallowed hard and made herself just a bit taller, just a little more prepared. 7:29am; 'this is the most idiotic idea I've ever had! Breathe, Catherine!'

7:30am

The lock sounded and the doorknob turned, and she pressed herself tighter against the wall. The door swung open to reveal the nurse, a breakfast tray in her steady hands. She looked at her patient curiously for a moment, but decidedly didn't care, and set the tray on the bed, leaving without a word or gesture.

Breakfast! Someone was looking out for her! "Thank you, Daddy!" she breathed her relief to the heavens. Breakfast before anything meant that the exams were cancelled for the day. It wasn't much, but it bought her a few more hours at the very least.


	10. Chapter 10

**Well, here we are. I'm just going to do all of this in one big fell-swoop! This is the first of four chapters that will include the alternate ending. You'll get about half-way through this chapter, and you'll come upon a note saying where to skip to if you want to read the alternate ending. Everything should be marked clearly, and if it's not, please let me know and I will fix it.**

**Catherine Maya**

* * *

The contractions were getting worse as the day wore on, and she swore that everyone was getting suspicious. She gasped through the pain, mentally begging for the opportunity to cry out; any reprieve. The nurse checked in on her frequently and she grit her teeth, keeping some degree of normality on her face, but unable to hide the burning fire in her eyes, daring the smaller woman to come near her.

But, as late afternoon and evening began to weave their way into the world, the pains began to take over. Petrified that she wouldn't be able to control her cries, she huddled in the corner, her hands over her face. Breakfast and lunch had come and gone, but food was repellant. She was certain that anything she tried to put in her body would come right back up with each contraction. Instead, she'd been trying to make herself seem as if she were on a hunger strike.

She'd been pacing, trying to relieve the aches, shifting her hips as best she could without calling attention to herself. The light had faded fairly quickly from the world beyond her window. The night would have been a relief, had the contractions not become nearly unbearable. She felt another begin, and she glanced at the clock; about seven minutes since the last one. This one took hold of her quickly, and she fell into the corner, sinking to her knees while she groped and pounded lightly on the wall with one hand, and stifled her emerging sounds with the other. She did her best to ride the wave, breathing through, gripping tight to anything she didn't think she would cause any damage to. It didn't seem to want to ease away quickly, and she pushed her face into the corner, heaving, trying to emulate the steadiness of those walls she clung to.

She sat on her feet, her knees spread, for a moment while the contraction began to ebb away. For the moment, the position felt good and she breathed into the heaviness of her body sinking into the floor. She glanced at the clock again and noted the time. She groaned; fourteen hours of labor and nothing was happening. Maybe it would just stop, everything, and she would have a day or two more to think and plan? Perhaps this was all stress and psychosomatic?

She began to crawl her way up onto her feet, leaning her whole back against the crook in the walls, her face still partially turned into it. With no warning whatsoever, another wave took her, and she hid in her hands as she body slumped. She gasped and breathed, small squeaks emerging out of her control. It began to fade as quickly as it had come on, and she gulped through the last aching remnants.

But, before it had completely left her, the lock sounded. She quickly pushed herself off of the wall and set her jaw tight, chewing on the cries that begged to be released. She watched the nurse set her dinner on the bed with as indifferent a face as she could manage. She swore the little woman could not move slower; it seemed interminable. The tray was placed and the nurse's dark eyes swept over her patient, examining her quickly before turning away and calmly shutting the door behind herself.

She slowly tripped back into her corner, breathing out the last bits of fleeting pains. The dinner was covered, but smelled repulsive, and she ran a hand along her swell as if to soothe the stomach that threatened to mutiny. However, at the base of her torso, she could feel, with only her fingers, the distinct outline of the little child inside, begging for freedom.

Tears took her easily, and she allowed herself a moment to speak to her baby. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed while she traced the form of a head. "I'm so, so sorry, Pip. I love you. All right? Do you understand? I do love you, oh so much. I wish… I wish so much was different. But, never you, my sweet miracle. You… you are the embodiment of everything I have ever done right in my life. Remember that," she wrapped her arms tight around her womb. "Please remember."

* * *

**This is where the alternate ending will begin, dear reader. If you are only interested in the SND version of this story, skip to chapter 12 now. It's like a choose-your-own adventure! Happy reading! ~Catherine Maya**

**P.S, For the stronger ones who think they can handle it, please read on in the original ending. I'd really like to know what you all think of the little details and explanations to what I consider the holes in this episode. For those reading both, be aware that some of the chapter will overlap, and you'll notice you've read that part before. It won't hurt to skim if you want, just be aware that it changes to the other version rather suddenly. Thanks!**

* * *

The world went dark again. Shadows bounced off of her skin, just as they did seventeen hours ago when everything began. The waiting was interminable, and she started feeling as though she'd never known a time that the aches and pains weren't a part of her. Her legs were tired and her body wanted nothing more than just an hour or two of sleep. She gave in to neither. She paced some more. She gave herself space enough to lean against the window for a few seconds and then pace back to the corner.

She was beginning to wonder, and then panic, that something was actually going wrong. Seventeen hours of labor with no changes that she could tell, except for the increasing intensity of pain; it seemed uncommon, even to her limited knowledge. How long had Lena been in labor with little Catherine? She couldn't remember, but she was almost certain it was nowhere near so long.

She stood at the window while the far away moon glistened at her in its first exploration of the sky this night. 'Remember,' she told herself, 'nothing about this pregnancy has been normal so far; why should the labor go so smoothly? There are bound to be abnormalities of some kind… complications.' The word hung in the air, dripping before her mind's eye. 'Complications.'

And suddenly, the panic took hold again. What did she think she was doing? Everything about this child; his conception, his growth, and now his labor; was strange. Of course his birth wouldn't be as easy as so many ancient cultures had described. A child, a person, such as he had never existed, ever. His birth would hardly be called 'normal'. She had to get out, she needed help.

A desperate hand pressed against the glass window, her last gesture of this kind. Her mind raced; she needed Father to guide her, she wanted Mary to tell her that everything was going to be all right, she ached for Vincent's arms to support her, she prayed for her mother and father to be by her side, take her hands and give her infinite love. They were all gone. She was alone now; and despite all of her own assurance and mantras to the contrary, she had truly become the desperate and caged animal her captor had molded her into.

She felt the, now familiar, tightening low in her belly, and she pushed herself off of the window quickly. "No!" she whispered frantically, repeatedly, as she raced, stumbling back to her corner. Her hands caught her collapse against the wall as her knees bent, trying to fall out from under her. She would have passed out had the contraction not been so intense that her body had no choice but to pay attention to it. With bent knees, she braced her back against the perpendicular wall, her palm against her mouth and her long fingers cradling her forehead. She breathed through the pain as best she could, her exhaustion hitting her again like a wave, gaining on and crashing against its preceding twin. It all flowed through her body; exhaustion and pain, two competing forces; crashing upon her and ebbing away, crashing upon her and ebbing away. It didn't seem to ever end and she squeezed her eyes closed as if it may help.

_Rock, dirt, pipes, firelight, all flashing by with unimaginable speed._

She opened her eyes in shock, but the contraction was still ripping through her. She felt as though she couldn't fit even one more thought into her mind and, whatever that was, it was simply a nuisance that plagued her. Another crashing wave, and she buried her face in the wall.

_Sharp, biting winter air formed into wind with a rushing force. All nerves were on edge; there was joy, relief, excitement, and thousands of other passions._

Her head came away from the wall with a cleansing breath that did nothing for the pain that still swept through her. She gulped hard, her hand to her face again as she breathed heavily, still unsure of how she was managing rational thought in that moment. The duality of her mind and body nearly made her laugh. Her body felt as though it was coming apart, piece by piece. Her mind soared with happiness and relief.

Vincent was coming.

She had seen him; she could feel him suddenly, coming ever-closer. He could feel her too, she was sure. He was coming! He was finally coming to rescue her.

The contraction eased away, and she breathed in relief. The exhaustion hit her again, though, relentless as it was. Her legs finally gave out and she slumped to the floor, her knees spread, sitting on her feet. He was coming, she wanted to smile but her muscles just wouldn't allow her. He was coming! She could practically taste freedom, she could practically smell Vincent on her own sweating skin. Her whole body relaxed, nearly caving in on itself in such a position.

Suddenly there was wet, all around and beneath her. She squirmed, confused and uncomfortable. She was prepared to be thoroughly embarrassed if it turned out that her bladder was now out of her control as well. But, she realized quickly that there was no urine smell, and she rolled as swiftly as she could away from the wet spot. Once on a dry patch of floor, she did a quick check of herself, and then let her head drop back in frustration.

"You couldn't wait just one more hour?" she grumbled, mostly inaudible, to her child. "It had to be now? Damn!" she heaved, hauling herself back against a dry area of wall.

Her whole body lurched forward with the next quick contraction, and this time she couldn't suppress her outcry. She clamped a hand over her mouth as quickly as she could, but she knew that moment had jeopardized her. The contraction gripped her and refused to shake loose, and her free hand fell between her legs to brace herself against the floor. She whimpered and cried but nothing helped.

"Stop!" she begged her own body in a whisper. "Please! God, please, make it stop!"

As if someone had heard her, the ache began to ease away. She gripped her legs with both hands, and let herself slump against the wall as she breathed heavily. Her eyes drifted closed with relief, and an image met her mind immediately.

_A tall glass-windowed building with only the cloudy moon to light it. Incredulous, relieved, and overwhelmed, the winter air bit, and there was frantic movement once again._

"He's here," she whispered. "He's coming. We have to go," she began pushing herself to standing, using the wall to climb up. "It's time to go," she stroked her belly as she began shuffling along the bed and toward the door. "Come on," she encouraged herself. "Move, Chandler!" she growled at her shaking limbs.

Finally, her body made contact with the door and her forehead fell against the cool metal, a hand to steady herself as well. "Vincent…" she called softly. "I'm here. I'm here," she sobbed.

Another labor pain began and she fought it, gripping the doorknob tight, though she knew it would not turn for her. "No!" she grit her teeth, and pounded her other hand on the door. But, the pain was taking her over quickly, and she glanced over her shoulder at the voyeuristic camera. Angrily, she pushed herself away from the door, determined to make it back to her corner. She clutched at her swell, stumbling as she went, grabbing a hold of the nightstand, and then the bed to steady her way.

That awful, traitor of a body gave out half-way around the bed, and she dropped onto the mattress suddenly, holding her shaking thighs, and trying to bite back the cries that rose in her throat. Realizing where she was, she glanced over her shoulder, the camera's red light blinked, winked covetously at her. She wanted, desperately, to spit at it, but a sharp pain ripped through her hips, and she fell back over her legs with an irrepressible shriek.

They'd be coming soon, any moment now. Something deep inside assured her that she'd been spotted and they knew at last. 'Too late,' she wanted to laugh, but couldn't. 'They're too late. He's come for me. He always comes for me!'

Another contraction; they came faster, stronger. 'Hurry, Vincent!' she cried out to him while she gripped and dug her nails into the mattress. Breathing through her teeth, she glanced at the digital clock; 8:42pm. Her child would surely enter this cruel world before the night was out. 'What day is it?' she demanded of herself frantically, forcing her mind to work through the peak of the contraction. 'Think! You have to know! Right now, be sure of the date that your child was born on! Now!'

12… December 12th. Tuesday, December 12th, 1989. She breathed as the contraction eased away. Tuesday, December 12th. Her eyes felt heavily and her body swayed, and she could hear the doctor calling instructions in the hall beyond her door. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and her mind immediately gave her an image; not of Vincent this time, but of her childhood room. Her mind's eye fixed on the poem worked out in cross-stitch and framed on her wall. It began:

"Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace"

"Full of grace," she whispered as her eyelids worked open again. The lock sounded and she clutched protectively at her belly. Fear coursed through her veins and her eyes darted about the room and out the window. She searched and begged for Vincent from her collapsed position on the bed. A flash of pain ran through her hips, gone as quickly as it had come, as if reminding her of her condition. She was, in no way, capable of fighting them off; nearly eighteen hours of labor and no sleep had well stripped her of any strength or cunning that may be necessary.

The door opened, and three figures were silhouetted in the frame; the doctor, the Asian nurse, and a young man dressed in white scrubs that she had never seen before. They took in the sight of her; sweating and panting, folded over her frail body. They looked like vultures to her, circling her, the hungry looks in their eyes as they swooped in to pick apart her flesh. She didn't fight them when the two nurses helped her to her feet, and they slid her onto the rolling gurney. She lay prone, watching the vultures, the bees, swarming about her.

'Don't panic,' she chanted to herself. 'He's coming. He is coming!' she insisted as a contraction began, and they wheeled her out of that wretched room; the last she'd ever see of it. She breathed through the labor pain, this one not as sharp as most, and let her gaze drift up to the doctor, pushing the gurney from the head.

"This will be over soon," he assured her.

Even seemingly upside down and washed out by the hallway's florescent lights, he seemed truly, desperately sorry for her, and this only served to increase her fear. Where was Vincent? She squeezed her eyes closed and called to him, searching for him, any image like she'd had before. Nothing; a blank wall where only the nursery rhyme hung.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace"

When she opened her eyes again, she was in the white surgical room, as if by some sort of magic. She hadn't even heard the door open for them. The two nurses were guiding her off of the gurney and to a slightly reclined, padded chair that had replaced the examination table. Everything was happening too fast for her to process, and she fell heavily into the chair as another intense contraction took hold of her. She breathed hard, watching unidentifiable instruments being passed back and forth in front of her. The Asian nurse circled around and pressed her pointed fingers into her patient's ears and temples, easing the rush of blood pounding in her head. She squeezed her eyes closed and called out to him.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace"

Perhaps she had only imagined him, in her wishful, desperate state. The thought was too horrible and discouraging to dwell on as another labor pain tore through her, and she finally allowed herself to cry out in pain.

Everyone seemed to be touching her; hundreds of hands, thousands of fingers, roaming her body; clutching, petting, poking; all of them trying to coax her to give up the tiny prize that was working his way through her body at that very moment. With everything in her, she wanted to push them away, strike out, and scream her defiance for the world to hear. The only one she achieved was the screaming, which felt better, albeit futile. She held the arms of the padded chair when her body told her to push, and she complied with an irrepressible wail.

The first real, intentional push surprised her. Not only was the pain well beyond anything she had been enduring for the past eighteen hours, but now she could actually feel the child moving, slipping downward. He was coming, this was real and irreversible… and still no Vincent. Slumped slightly in the chair, she pressed her eyes closed through another contraction. Her body screamed for her to push, but she held back as best she could, crying out and calling for Vincent through the crumbling remnants of her heart.

Nothing; not even that sweet nursery wall greeted her now. Fireworks of color popped behind her closed lids, but it didn't deter her. She screamed, fighting the contractions with any strength she may have left, searching for some sign of her love more desperately than she ever had before.

Something in the room made noise, and she shook it off as an annoyance, breathing as she began the struggle with the third contraction now. Faintly, voices began to make their way into her conscious mind and she worked her eyes open.

"Within the hour," the doctor spoke.

"That's too long," a familiar voice glided. "Cut the child out."

"No," she whispered, unaware that it had even come from her mouth. The contraction was fighting back now that her defenses were dropped.

"I suppose I could perform a cesarean," the doctor's reluctant voice mumbled.

"No! No," her mind was racing. She needed time. Vincent needed time. He was coming; he had to be!

"Do it," the gliding voice instructed, and the doctor turned back to face her, briskly.

The contraction had a full hold of her now and she made her decision immediately. She pushed, and hard. The child was slipping, falling, from her body, her protection, her hope. She barely took a moment to breathe before she pushed again, and she saw the doctor jump eagerly onto the stool, and position himself between her legs. She cried out with each moment of agony, allowing her body that relief and nothing else. Her womb was no longer safe, and her heart shattered as she forced herself to give her child to the outside evils of the world.

The doctor was yelling encouragements, not that she heard them between the pounding in her ears, and the piercing sound of her breaking heart. She pushed harder, stretching herself simultaneously upward as if she were creating an easier passage for him. With no moment's rest, she pushed again, crying out as if it would give her strength. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

And so, that child who she had been dreaming of for so many years; the child that she didn't dare to hope she would ever have; the child forever destined to be the bridge between their worlds; Vincent's child; _her_ child entered the world, and cried out for the warmth of his mother's flesh.

She couldn't move, even if she tried. She panted from sheer exhaustion, her entire body ached, and she felt as if there were some sort of chasm between her legs. But, oh, how beautiful those cries were to her eager ears. She followed the doctor's hands, and the swaddling within them, around to the nurse who began working fervently on the infant. Her gaze swept up when she felt the stare of her captor suddenly standing there beside her, his pointed face ever in its expression of such placid calm. The doctor held out the swaddling to him, and she strained to see around the soft blue blanket, as his hateful fingers wrapped around and supported the crying babe.

She couldn't help herself, her tired arms cried out for the weight of her child, and her breast ached to hold him close. "Please," she whispered, still trying to see around the wrappings. She couldn't make her body do much more than contort her face into its pathetic look of exhaustion and desperation.

"Perfect," he crooned as his long fingers stroked at the infant. He handed the bundle back to the doctor with barely a second glance.

"Please," she appealed again, trying to make herself smile through her panting. Her captor examined that pathetic, but somehow prideful face, and the doctor waited for the verdict. Slowly, carefully, he made a gesture and the doctor shifted, angling the babe so that she could see, but far enough away in case she tried to reach for him. Immediately, the child's cries went silent as mother and son found each other.

Her breath nearly stopped. He was exactly as she had always imagined him. Perfect didn't even begin to describe him. His tiny body had none of his father's unique features, but she swore that Vincent stared back at her through those intelligent blue eyes. Ten fingers, ten perfect little toes, and his soft pink skin matched her own. The dark matting on his head seemed to be the beginnings of an unruly mane of hair, and she couldn't help but smile at it. Their eyes found each other again; ocean blue and sea-foam green, and the babe seemed to speak to her for a moment. A single second surrounded by love, sadness, understanding, regrets, and unspoken wishes.

"Enough. Finish it… quickly."

Suddenly, the blanket was tucked back over the babe and he was passed off to the little Asian nurse. "No!" she gasped as the flurry of movement suddenly began all over again, and her son was swiftly taken from her reach. Her heart screamed at them all; 'He's mine! You can't have him! He's mine!' But, all her mouth could manage was, "No!" as that tiny bundle passed beyond the door and out of her sight. Her body refused any movement she tried to force on it, and as her captor closed the door behind the nurse, ensuring the success of the kidnapping, she could do nothing but go limp in the chair, watching the closed door and whispering one last "No."

He was gone. Six months of assuring that growing life that they would one day be safe, home… she had failed. She had failed herself, her son, her father. Vincent had never come. Vincent. She had been so sure, so confident that he was coming, that he would be there for them; that he would save them. How… how had she been so wrong? How had she failed so completely? What would-

"What is that?" she demanded, breathy and terrified as the doctor took her arm and carefully pushed the needle of a syringe into the crook of her elbow.

"You won't suffer," he informed, barely glancing at her sweat drenched face, "I promise."

It took her a moment to understand his words, but the plunger was almost fully depressed before their meaning sunk in and her breath quickened. Her panicking face searched, pleaded with the doctor who had once tried to help her. He never looked. The needle was ripped from her arm, leaving a trail of blood, and she watched him dash out of that horrible white room.

Her heavy breathing became labored quickly, and her wide eyes began collapsing as she felt the serum working through her system at unimaginable speed. 'I'm dying,' the reality ripped through her. The end was creeping upon her, and somehow, in that moment, she welcomed death. There was nothing left. Her son was lost to the hands of a man who would most likely take his life as well. And Vincent… Vincent…

"Vincent," she whispered his name, allowing her eyes to close, and submitting to her fate.

_Running! Blood pounded in his ears. The sounds of a helicopter called and he followed; frantic, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Another flight of stairs, and then another._

She forced her eyes open with a gasping breath. He _was _here, above her, running for the roof. He had run right past the floor she was on. He was close behind her captor… and the son he knew nothing about.

'Protect him,' a small voice whispered to her in her mind. 'Be sure your son makes it to safety.'

Fighting for control of her limbs, she gripped the arms of the chair and pulled herself upward. Both hands grasped each leg and pulled them from the stirrups that no one had bothered to take her out of. She slid, more than climbed, out of the chair, both knees making contact with the floor before she began grabbing at anything sturdy enough to support her weight. She dragged herself to the drawers and cabinets beside the chair and threw them open as she dug through. Her deft fingers fumbled with everything she came in contact with, and her vision blurred more than once, making it nearly impossible to read the labels.

Finally, she threw a drawer open and found the front section filled with packaged and sealed syringes with blue labels. She grabbed one, knocking two out in the process, and sank to the floor, her feet coming out from under her easily. Her breathing now making wheezing noises, she blinked hard to keep herself awake and able to read the label. As soon as she made sure it was what she needed, she gripped the plastic sleeve and used all her strength to tear it open. Her breath now completely out of her control, she removed the needle's plastic cap with her teeth, and gripped the syringe tight, as she moved her hospital gown out of the way. She cried out as the needle impaled her thigh, and she pushed the plunger, hard and fast.

The adrenaline shot was like fire in her veins. And she sat very still, panting for a moment as it worked into her bloodstream. Her eyes were wide and her body shook, and she knew, almost immediately, that the adrenaline was a very quick fix, and wouldn't react well with whatever had been pumped into her system just minutes ago. She had to move, now!

She pulled herself to her feet, the acid in her veins making everything work faster, but only a third as well, and walked her hands along the wall to the door. She struggled with the knob, using both hands to turn it and pull it open. The walls of the hallway seemed to be closing in on her, and the whole world seemed to contract and expand in tandem with her fading pulse. She walked her way along the walls and to the large grey door that led to the staircase. It took the whole weight of her body against the bar to release the latch, and she stumbled into the first step. She pulled herself up by the railing and began climbing. One step, then another, as cold December air slicked like ice over her skin, and fire seemed to course beneath it.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace"

She was on the landing, another set of steps ahead of her, and she gripped the railing. She swayed, unsteady and out of breath. The adrenaline shot was beginning to work with the other drugs, uniting and working against her now. She took a step and her foot slipped out from under her, her arms clutched at the railing for support.

"CATHERINE!"

The scream came from above her, deep and accented. Her heart screamed back, 'VINCENT!', and she had to fight herself to keep moving instead of stopping there, content in just hearing her name on his lips. She pulled herself up; a step, then two. She was so close, the winter air bit at her bare skin and she breathed in her first taste of fresh air in six months.

"CATHERINE!"

The helicopter sounds were growing distant. They'd gotten away; away from her and away from him. She dragged herself now, just a few more steps. Breath was leaving her and her vision was growing steadily blurrier. She knew that she was trailing blood; after-birth and the stress of moving so soon after delivery contributing to the unstoppable wet running down her legs. She hauled her rebelling body upward. One more step… just one more.

* * *

Catherine Chandler was free; swaying on the roof of the building she'd been held in for what felt like eternity. The first perfect sight that greeted her newfound freedom was the flowing black cape, sweeping tangle of blonde hair, and large frame of her lover, just as she had seen him last; tall and strong, brave and defiant, determined and loving.

"Vincent," Catherine whispered his name. It tasted glorious on her tongue, mixing with the cold December wind; like snow and smoke in her mouth. He spun to find her, and their eyes connected, the same eyes that she had just found in their son; ocean blue and sea-foam green, drinking in the sight of each other. His amazement at the sight of her was joyous and soul-wrenching at once. The look on his face made her dizzy, almost to fainting. Her vision blurred, she swayed, and began to fall forward.

Suddenly he was there, guiding her in his secure arms as her weight gave out and was forced to be supported by him. She could smell that scent that was unmistakably him. She felt those large wonderful arms she had been longing for, finally close around and cradle her.

"Oh, Vincent!" Catherine gasped out as he fell with her, desperate as she had been for so long to see his face, touch him, as she let his name fall over her lips.

"Catherine?" he sounded as if he didn't fully believe it was her. His gaze roamed the length of her, studying each detail of her face. "Catherine…"

Catherine smiled weakly, her muscles not entirely within her control. "Vincent," she whispered again, love and wonder and anguish all rising together in her voice. Perhaps this was a dream; just one more dream to wish and ache for him through. No; his arms were too real. Never before, in any of her dreams, had his arms been so strong, his scent so clear, or his face so perfectly detailed.

She wanted to say a thousand things, and none seemed even slightly less important than the rest. They all passed through her mind at once, as she stared at the wondrous golden visage of her love, but none made it to her lips. Thousands of words of love and devotion passed through, but every one paled in comparison to what she felt in her heart… her racing heart.

'Save him,' that small voice whispered to her again. 'Tell him. Be strong; save your son. Tuesday's child is full of grace.'

She swallowed while Vincent's indulgent eyes roved her face, joy and worry both creeping their way along his features. Now was not the time to be coy or delicate. He needed to know… before she was gone.

"We loved," she panted, conveying her meaning as best she could with her words, knowing that her face was nearly out of her control. He looked at her, so puzzled, so innocent, that somehow those tiny fragments of her heart shattered once more. Those beautiful innocent eyes that their son now possessed; oh, the perfect beauty of it. "There is a child," she gasped, taking in the hazy vision of Vincent, and the clear picture of that perfect infant in her mind.

"A child?" he looked as though the center of his face was pulling everything inward; his brows and the corners of his lips. The word seemed difficult in his mouth, much less the idea in his mind.

Catherine smiled at him, as best she could through her short breaths; at his confused and amazed face, knowing that he had never dared to dream of such a gift for himself. The image of that sweet, innocent gift intensified in her mind; those incredible eyes, delicate skin, and mass of hair. "He's beautiful!" she sobbed, the knowledge washing over her once more that she would never see her baby again.

Vincent's eyes were swimming with tears now; tears of joy _and_ heartache. All these broken bits of truth seemed to be crashing down on him and he was reeling with the knowledge of them; with the weight of her in his arms again; with her halting breaths that the young physician in him recognized, but the lover did not want to admit to. "Catherine…"

Her name on his lips was like music and she reveled in it. In a flash, she smelled the dusty old room, and heard the pipes tapping as he whispered her name for the first time. She remembered just how it sounded; like a sigh; like the first true breath of life; as if Spring had suddenly just erupted around them. She remembered how the sound of it made her dizzy and her heart beat faster. Catherine gasped as her heart seemed to suddenly be beating out of control and something odd and numbing shot through her side and immediately paralyzed both legs. Her breath caught in her throat and her gaze drifted away as she felt the drugs take over her body.

"Catherine?" Vincent called, clutching at her desperately.

And she knew; this was it, this was her last moment to say goodbye to him… to help him say goodbye to her. Her heart ached, and she wasn't sure if it was the agony of leaving him, or the drugs that were now working their way up her waist, shutting her body down, piece by piece. It took a moment for her to bring her attention back to him, but as soon as their eyes met again, she smiled at that beautiful face she had so longed for. Before she lost the use of her arms, she reached up and touched that bewildered and tortured face. Her hand hesitated for barely a second, still fearing the possibility of it all being a dream and her hand simply passing right through him. But, her fingers made contact with his rough stubble and defined cheekbone, and she gasped, smiling, another flash of memory passing before her, while she caressed him. That awful moment when she first saw him; the comfort of his arms the first time he held her, the look on his face that first night that she had begged him to stay with her on her balcony… their balcony. All those secret meetings and precious nights, spent in the one place in her world that she had made just for the two of them. Hundreds of difficult discussions, unnumbered nights of soft and sweet poetry lingering like fog around them, and the nights of his illness when he didn't leave once daylight reached them. She thought she might lose him then, and there they were; her life quickly draining through his fingers.

She wanted to tell him everything; _everything_! Every tiny moment that she had loved and treasured him, and every moment that he had frustrated and angered her. She wanted him to know every fleeting thought in her mind while she sat in that room, carrying his child, and dreaming of him. She wanted him to know that she understood that neither of them would ever be able to let the other go.

And suddenly, the words that she had been resenting, hating even, for the past six months, now meant everything to her. They were suddenly the only words that could describe everything she was feeling so precisely and succinctly. She let her fingers rest against his cheek as she gulped for air and the stamina to get her message out.

"Though… lovers… be lost…" Catherine stumbled.

So honest and direct was Vincent's gaze that it pierced her soul. He knew, in an instant, he understood what was happening, and what she meant, and everything that she was feeling in that exact second. And, he answered her, assured her, promised her; "Love shall not…"

Her arm was numb, and her breath felt as though it came through a straw now. She nodded, barely perceptible, and tried her best to smile at him through her eyes. Her body was shaking, jerking out of her control. It didn't matter. Their eyes were locked, just as their bodies, their hearts, their souls. Catherine knew; he loved her, and he would never stop loving her. He would hold her against his heart, just as he did now, for always, eternity, forever… yes, forever.

She felt the shock of her heart stop, but for that fraction of a second she did not release his gaze. She held him there as the light dimmed. His radiant golden glow was the last thing she saw before her life ended.

**"Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight **

**Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, **

**Rage, rage against the dying of the light. **

**And you, my father, there on the sad height, **

**Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. **

**Do not go gentle into that good night. **

**Rage, rage against the dying of the light."**


	11. Epilogue Original

_**Epilogue**_

"You did it, Catherine," her father's warmth surrounded her. "You did wonderfully, sweetheart."

"It hurts," Catherine cried. "Why does it all still hurt so much?"

"The pain will ease," her mother assured, "for both of you."

The trio watched Vincent, weeping over Catherine's lifeless body. There was nothing that they could do, and Catherine's soul wept along with him.

"Are you ready?" her father posed the question softly.

"Not yet!" Catherine begged. "Please? I can't… I just can't leave him."

"Then don't," her mother's warm glow surrounded them. "Don't ever leave his side, Catherine. Look out for him, guide him. Guide your son."

"Will he know?" Catherine knelt beside her love, her body pulled close to his chest, while her soul lingered just out of reach. "Will he know that I never left him?"

"Sometimes he will feel you near, sometimes he won't," her mother explained. "But, does it really matter if he knows? You've sworn to love forever, what better connection can there be?"

Vincent lifted Catherine's body into his arms. Tears no longer shook his muscles, falling now in calm, steady streams. He carried her easily, supporting her with nothing but dignity and reverence while he began his descent from that horrible rooftop.

"I have to go with him," Catherine watched him move, slow, methodic, as if lead weighed down his feet.

"We know," Charles encouraged.

"We will wait," Caroline assured, "for both of you."

So, she followed close to him, learning how she could give him strength; the strength to leave her body in her bed; the strength to escape back to the tunnels when the daylight threatened him; and the strength to tell Father all of the terrible events that the night held. She watched him mourn her, with no true touch to ease his pain, she wept alongside of him, knowing how he felt so alone. She sat beside him and held him, even if he didn't know, the day of her funeral; her soul somehow lighter, happier as the children gathered around and gave him that much-needed comfort in her place.

Catherine saw him, sinking deeper and deeper into depression. She worried as she watched him wallowing in his mourning; he was lost in his grief, entirely forgetting the mission of finding their son that she had set for him. The day that she saw him, deep in the tunnels, struggling, fighting that anger and darkness within him, welcoming the idea of suicide; she couldn't let him forget, he had to find their son, she refused to allow her nightmares to become reality. Quickly, more intense and clear than she'd ever been able to communicate with him before, Catherine reminded him of her words on that barren rooftop; "There is a child!"

She watched over him, guided him proudly in his pursuits of her captor; Gabriel. She sat beside him in that cell, and she looked on with unfiltered joy as he held their son in his arms for the first time. Only once, _once_, in all the time that she watched over him, did she leave his side. He rescued their son, dashing from the mansion with the babe in his arms, and Catherine stayed behind, a hand of strength on the detective, Diana's, shoulder as the woman aimed Catherine's own gun at the coward who had stolen her life.

Catherine stood proud beside Vincent, just as she would have in life, as her son was given the name Jacob. She watched over, loved, protected them, until the day that Vincent joined her, and they knew that their son as strong enough to stand on his own.

Tuesday's child is full of grace.

* * *

Quotes are from:

Dylan Thomas- "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

Dylan Thomas- "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"

F. Scott Fitzgerald- "The Great Gatsby"

William Shakespeare- "Much Ado About Nothing"

William Shakespeare- "Hamlet"

William Shakespeare- "Macbeth"

William Shakespeare- "Sonnet #11"

Rainer Maria Rilke- "Letters To A Young Poet"

Unknown- "Monday's Child"


	12. Chapter 12

**Welcome to the SND version! I hope you enjoy it! It definitely sent my hopeless romantic little heart all a-flutter! I'm really proud of this idea of how she survived. As far as I know, no one's done this before. If it seems familiar to you, please let me know who else had a similar idea, because I'd love to read theirs! And keep in mind, there's an epilogue after this chapter.**

**Happy Reading! ~Catherine Maya**

* * *

The world went dark again. Shadows bounced off of her skin, just as they did seventeen hours ago when everything began. The waiting was interminable, and she started feeling as though she'd never known a time that the aches and pains weren't a part of her. Her legs were tired and her body wanted nothing more than just an hour or two of sleep. She gave in to neither. She paced some more. She gave herself space enough to lean against the window for a few seconds and then pace back to the corner.

She was beginning to wonder, and then panic, that something was actually going wrong. Seventeen hours of labor with no changes that she could tell, except for the increasing intensity of pain; it seemed uncommon, even to her limited knowledge. How long had Lena been in labor with little Catherine? She couldn't remember, but she was almost certain it was nowhere near so long.

She stood at the window while the far away moon glistened at her in its first exploration of the sky this night. 'Remember,' she told herself, 'nothing about this pregnancy has been normal so far; why should the labor go so smoothly? There are bound to be abnormalities of some kind… complications.' The word hung in the air, dripping before her mind's eye. 'Complications.'

And suddenly, the panic took hold again. What did she think she was doing? Everything about this child; his conception, his growth, and now his labor; was strange. Of course his birth wouldn't be as easy as so many ancient cultures had described. A child, a person, such as he had never existed, ever. His birth would hardly be called 'normal'. She had to get out, she needed help.

A desperate hand pressed against the glass window, her last gesture of this kind. Her mind raced; she needed Father to guide her, she wanted Mary to tell her that everything was going to be all right, she ached for Vincent's arms to support her, she prayed for her mother and father to be by her side, take her hands and give her infinite love. They were all gone. She was alone now; and despite all of her own assurance and mantras to the contrary, she had truly become the desperate and caged animal her captor had molded her into.

She felt the, now familiar, tightening low in her belly, and she pushed herself off of the window quickly. "No!" she whispered frantically, repeatedly, as she raced, stumbling back to her corner. Her hands caught her collapse against the wall as her knees bent, trying to fall out from under her. She would have passed out had the contraction not been so intense that her body had no choice but to pay attention to it. With bent knees, she braced her back against the perpendicular wall, her palm against her mouth and her long fingers cradling her forehead. She breathed through the pain as best she could, her exhaustion hitting her again like a wave, gaining on and crashing against its preceding twin. It all flowed through her body; exhaustion and pain, two competing forces; crashing upon her and ebbing away, crashing upon her and ebbing away. It didn't seem to ever end and she squeezed her eyes closed as if it may help.

_Rock, dirt, pipes, firelight, all flashing by with unimaginable speed._

She opened her eyes in shock, but the contraction was still ripping through her. She felt as though she couldn't fit even one more thought into her mind and, whatever that was, it was simply a nuisance that plagued her. Another crashing wave, and she buried her face in the wall.

_Sharp, biting winter air formed into wind with a rushing force. All nerves were on edge; there was joy, relief, excitement, and thousands of other passions._

Her head came away from the wall with a cleansing breath that did nothing for the pain that still swept through her. She gulped hard, her hand to her face again as she breathed heavily, still unsure of how she was managing rational thought in that moment. The duality of her mind and body nearly made her laugh. Her body felt as though it was coming apart, piece by piece. Her mind soared with happiness and relief.

Vincent was coming.

She had seen him; she could feel him suddenly, coming ever-closer. He could feel her too, she was sure. He was coming! He was finally coming to rescue her.

The contraction eased away, and she breathed in relief. The exhaustion hit her again, though, relentless as it was. Her legs finally gave out and she slumped to the floor, her knees spread, sitting on her feet. He was coming; she wanted to smile but her muscles just wouldn't allow her. He was coming! She could practically taste freedom, she could practically smell Vincent on her own sweating skin. Her whole body relaxed, nearly caving in on itself in such a position.

Suddenly there was wet, all around and beneath her. She squirmed, confused and uncomfortable. She was prepared to be thoroughly embarrassed if it turned out that her bladder was now out of her control as well. But, she realized quickly that there was no urine smell, and she rolled as swiftly as she could away from the wet spot. Once on a dry patch of floor, she did a quick check of herself, and then let her head drop back in frustration.

"You couldn't wait just one more hour?" she grumbled, mostly inaudible, to her child. "It had to be now? Damn!" she heaved, hauling herself back against a dry area of wall.

Her whole body lurched forward with the next quick contraction, and this time she couldn't suppress her outcry. She clamped a hand over her mouth as quickly as she could, but she knew that moment had jeopardized her. The contraction gripped her and refused to shake loose, and her free hand fell between her legs to brace herself against the floor. She whimpered and cried but nothing helped.

"Stop!" she begged her own body in a whisper. "Please! God, please, make it stop!"

As if someone had heard her, the ache began to ease away. She gripped her legs with both hands, and let herself slump against the wall as she breathed heavily. Her eyes drifted closed with relief, and an image met her mind immediately.

_A tall glass-windowed building with only the cloudy moon to light it. Incredulous, relieved, and overwhelmed, the winter air bit, and there was frantic movement once again._

"He's here," she whispered. "He's coming. We have to go," she began pushing herself to standing, using the wall to climb up. "It's time to go," she stroked her belly as she began shuffling along the bed and toward the door. "Come on," she encouraged herself. "Move, Chandler!" she growled at her shaking limbs.

Finally, her body made contact with the door and her forehead fell against the cool metal, a hand to steady herself as well. "Vincent…" she called softly. "I'm here. I'm here," she sobbed.

Another labor pain began and she fought it, gripping the doorknob tight, though she knew it would not turn for her. "No!" she grit her teeth, and pounded her other hand on the door. But, the pain was taking her over quickly, and she glanced over her shoulder at the voyeuristic camera. Angrily, she pushed herself away from the door, determined to make it back to her corner. She clutched at her swell, stumbling as she went, grabbing a hold of the nightstand, and then the bed to steady her way.

That awful, traitor of a body gave out half-way around the bed, and she dropped onto the mattress suddenly, holding her shaking thighs, and trying to bite back the cries that rose in her throat. Realizing where she was, she glanced over her shoulder, the camera's red light blinked, winked covetously at her. She wanted, desperately, to spit at it, but a sharp pain ripped through her hips, and she fell back over her legs with an irrepressible shriek.

They'd be coming soon, any moment now. Something deep inside assured her that she'd been spotted and they knew at last. 'Too late,' she wanted to laugh, but couldn't. 'They're too late. He's come for me. He always comes for me!'

Another contraction; they came faster, stronger. 'Hurry, Vincent!' she cried out to him while she gripped and dug her nails into the mattress. Breathing through her teeth, she glanced at the digital clock; 8:42pm. Her child would surely enter this cruel world before the night was out. 'What day is it?' she demanded of herself frantically, forcing her mind to work through the peak of the contraction. 'Think! You have to know! Right now, be sure of the date that your child was born on! Now!'

12… December 12th. Tuesday, December 12th, 1989. She breathed as the contraction eased away. Tuesday, December 12th. Her eyes felt heavily and her body swayed, and she could hear the doctor calling instructions in the hall beyond her door. For a moment, she closed her eyes, and her mind immediately gave her an image; not of Vincent this time, but of her childhood room. Her mind's eye fixed on the poem worked out in cross-stitch and framed on her wall. It began:

"Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace"

"Full of grace," she whispered as her eyelids worked open again. The lock sounded and she clutched protectively at her belly. Fear coursed through her veins and her eyes darted about the room and out the window. She searched and begged for Vincent from her collapsed position on the bed. A flash of pain ran through her hips, gone as quickly as it had come, as if reminding her of her condition. She was, in no way, capable of fighting them off; nearly eighteen hours of labor and no sleep had well stripped her of any strength or cunning that may be necessary.

The door opened, and three figures were silhouetted in the frame; the doctor, the Asian nurse, and a young man dressed in white scrubs that she had never seen before. They took in the sight of her; sweating and panting, folded over her frail body. They looked like vultures to her, circling her, the hungry looks in their eyes as they swooped in to pick apart her flesh. She didn't fight them when the two nurses helped her to her feet, and they slid her onto the rolling gurney. She lay prone, watching the vultures, the bees, swarming about her.

'Don't panic,' she chanted to herself. 'He's coming. He is coming!' she insisted as a contraction began, and they wheeled her out of that wretched room; the last she'd ever see of it. She breathed through the labor pain, this one not as sharp as most, and let her gaze drift up to the doctor, pushing the gurney from the head.

"This will be over soon," he assured her.

Even seemingly upside down and washed out by the hallway's florescent lights, he seemed truly, desperately sorry for her, and this only served to increase her fear. Where was Vincent? She squeezed her eyes closed and called to him, searching for him, any image like she'd had before. Nothing; a blank wall where only the nursery rhyme hung.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace"

When she opened her eyes again, she was in the white surgical room, as if by some sort of magic. She hadn't even heard the door open for them. The two nurses were guiding her off of the gurney and to a slightly reclined, padded chair that had replaced the examination table. Everything was happening too fast for her to process, and she fell heavily into the chair as another intense contraction took hold of her. She breathed hard, watching unidentifiable instruments being passed back and forth in front of her. The Asian nurse circled around and pressed her pointed fingers into her patient's ears and temples, easing the rush of blood pounding in her head. She squeezed her eyes closed and called out to him.

"Tuesday's child is full of grace"

Perhaps she had only imagined him, in her wishful, desperate state. The thought was too horrible and discouraging to dwell on as another labor pain tore through her, and she finally allowed herself to cry out in pain.

Everyone seemed to be touching her; hundreds of hands, thousands of fingers, roaming her body; clutching, petting, poking; all of them trying to coax her to give up the tiny prize that was working his way through her body at that very moment. With everything in her, she wanted to push them away, strike out, and scream her defiance for the world to hear. The only one she achieved was the screaming, which felt better, albeit futile. She held the arms of the padded chair when her body told her to push, and she complied with an irrepressible wail.

The first real, intentional push surprised her. Not only was the pain well beyond anything she had been enduring for the past eighteen hours, but now she could actually feel the child moving, slipping downward. He was coming, this was real and irreversible… and still no Vincent. Slumped slightly in the chair, she pressed her eyes closed through another contraction. Her body screamed for her to push, but she held back as best she could, crying out and calling for Vincent through the crumbling remnants of her heart.

Nothing; not even that sweet nursery wall greeted her now. Fireworks of color popped behind her closed lids, but it didn't deter her. She screamed, fighting the contractions with any strength she may have left, searching for some sign of her love more desperately than she ever had before.

Something in the room made noise, and she shook it off as an annoyance, breathing as she began the struggle with the third contraction now. Faintly, voices began to make their way into her conscious mind and she worked her eyes open.

"Within the hour," the doctor spoke.

"That's too long," a familiar voice glided. "Cut the child out."

"No," she whispered, unaware that it had even come from her mouth. The contraction was fighting back now that her defenses were dropped.

"I suppose I could perform a cesarean," the doctor's reluctant voice mumbled.

"No! No," her mind was racing. She needed time. Vincent needed time. He was coming; he had to be!

"Do it," the gliding voice instructed, and the doctor turned back to face her, briskly.

The contraction had a full hold of her now and she made her decision immediately. She pushed, and hard. The child was slipping, falling, from her body, her protection, her hope. She barely took a moment to breathe before she pushed again, and she saw the doctor jump eagerly onto the stool, and position himself between her legs. She cried out with each moment of agony, allowing her body that relief and nothing else. Her womb was no longer safe, and her heart shattered as she forced herself to give her child to the outside evils of the world.

There was such noise; such that she had never known. Her own screaming mixed with the blood pounding in her ears deafened her. And it seemed like there were thousands of other voices, all yelling, all screaming, all pounding in her ears right alongside her. She forced herself to push again, not a moment's reprieve, and she heard the doctor call out something about the head. She felt as though her body was splitting in two.

And then, suddenly, for her, everything stopped and there was a flash of clarity. Vincent. She gasped with the spark of sudden knowledge, her body stiff and shaking from physical stress and mental shock. Everything went hazy for a moment, a split second of time in which the staff surrounding her grew suddenly quite nervous.

Simultaneously, as she fell back into the chair heavily, the secured door was flung open, and there, snarling and ready to pounce, was Vincent. The little nurse at her head completely abandoned her patient and back away, quickly, knocking over trays and instruments in her retreat to the farthest wall where she met the other nurse. The doctor jumped in shock and tried to push himself away as well, but found himself caught between his patient's legs, and he slipped off of the stool, falling awkwardly onto his back and staring up at the creature closing in on him.

Vincent's threatening sounds quieted as he took in the sight within the room. The medical staff cowering away from him was a mere fraction of the puzzle now laid before him. More so was his beloved, prone and sweating, her legs spread and her feet straining against the stirrups that held them. They were all frozen for a moment as Vincent tried to absorb the horrifying scene in front of him. His eyes were glued to the poor woman, writhing in the padded chair with nowhere to go.

She found his gaze, panting, trying to breathe through the urge to push that was creeping up on her. She wanted to fight it off, but now that she'd begun, her body didn't want to stop, and she struggled against it. Weakly, she raised a shaking arm and reached for that perfect vision in the doorway. "Vincent," she pleaded in no more than a whisper, "help me."

His eyes grew wide at her words, and his breath was laborious now as well. Swiftly, his gaze swept to the doctor and two nurses huddling at a distance. "Get out," he growled, low and terrible, a promise of punishment if they didn't comply, dripping from his exposed canines. The medical staff quaked at the sound of his voice and glanced, wide-eyed, between Vincent and their patient. "Now!" he growled again, a little louder and longer.

Slowly, meticulously, the two nurses began inching their way along the wall towards the door. For every step they took, Vincent countered; moving away from the door and closer to his love, who was now crying out as she fought against the need to push. The doctor climbed to his feet and stumbled back to the wall, groping his way along as he followed the nurses, his gaze searching both the patient and the creature she called for. The nurses cleared the room, and their pounding footsteps sounded clearly as the doctor paused, holding the door and watching Vincent in terror. He opened his mouth, glancing at the woman struggling in the chair, as if he wanted to apologize or help. Vincent tilted his head, a dare in his eyes before the other man could even make a sound.

"Out," Vincent commanded in that low, quiet tone.

The doctor nodded hurriedly, and began pulling the door closed behind him. He stopped, taking a breath for courage, and turned back. Vincent watched him carefully, as he purposefully turned the knob, locking the door from the inside. The men made eye-contact for only a fraction of a second before the doctor turned and dashed out of the surgical room, slamming the door closed behind him. Quickly, Vincent spun around and closed the bit of distance between himself and the woman in the chair, his whole body suddenly going soft and gentle.

She grappled for the hand that he offered her, staring up at the oddly bright sight of him in the artificial lights. She would have sworn this was another dream if his hand weren't so heavy and real in her own. "You're here," she panted, trying to smile, but finding herself to weak.

"I'm here," he assured, his face falling close to hers. "I'm here, I've found you!"

"Vincent…" she smiled weakly at him. Pain took hold of her again and she suddenly gripped his hand tight, crying out, and unable to fight it anymore. It didn't matter, she realized as Vincent, panicking, began to inspect her with a professionalism learned from his father; he was here now, right beside her. She didn't have to fight anymore.

"Catherine," he whispered her name and she shook, now with joy, at her first time hearing someone speak it in months, "the baby is crowning. I can guide it, all right?" He looked deep into her eyes, communicating with her through the pain as he had been taught; as if he needed to, she hung on every word that fell from those magnificent, _real_ lips. He squeezed her hand to signal his need for her to let go, and she did so with a bit of reluctance. He positioned himself between her legs, and took a second to breath, closing his eyes, still unable to absorb the situation fully. He fought back the thousands of questions, and tried to just focus on how she needed him now. "Look at me," he instructed her, holding her attention as she panted and cried. "Look directly at me and don't look away, not once."

"I swear," she nodded, joy swelling in her chest and shining through her face at his request. "I won't ever look away."

"Good," he gave her a small smile as their love and devotion suddenly shot through both of them like lightening. He nodded, preparing himself as well as her, "Push, Catherine!"

She bore down with all her strength, her gaze never leaving that incredible vision as she cried out, and quickly fell back into the chair, exhausted and sure that she could force herself to do nothing more. She watched Vincent move his arms furiously just out of her eyesight, his concentration deep, and he jaw set nearly as tight as hers.

"Almost there, Catherine!" he encouraged. "You're doing beautifully! Just one more, all right?"

She began to push herself up, but fell back as soon as she tried to exert any force. She shook her head, tears falling as she moaned. "Can't," she mumbled as her head fell to the side.

"Yes you can," Vincent assured, stealing a nervous glance at the locked door. "Catherine, look at me! Look right here," he pointed to his eyes and didn't stop until she had found them. "You can do this," he told her, his gaze burrowing into her. "You've come this far. I'm here! I'm here now, and you can do this," he nodded, and she nodded along with him. "Just one more; one more, and then, I promise it'll all be like a bad dream."

Her mind reeled with his words and the impossible blue of his eyes that she had been longing for, for so long. It would all be just a bad dream. Once more, and they would be free, and they could forget about this horrible room, the horrible building, and all the horrible people. Just once more. She pulled herself up and took a few deep breaths before bearing down and pushing with every ounce of strength in her. She screamed, sounds falling from her open mouth that seemed to come of their own free will and drowned out Vincent's encouragements. She was slipping, sliding, everything was. And then… it stopped.

"It's a boy," he called softly, breathless. Quickly, he set the wailing infant on her stomach, holding him there as her shaking hands reached for him.

Catherine Chandler reached for her son, sobbing as her hands made contact with his slick body. "Is he alive?" she found herself demanding through her tears. "Is he all right?"

"He's beautiful," Vincent nodded, panting, and inadvertently smiling at the newborn. "He looks absolutely perfect." She breathed in relief as he quickly found the cloths set aside for cleaning and swaddling, and set to work.

The child cried, somehow less of an infant's sound, and somewhat more like a mewling kitten. Catherine shushed him softly as she breathed heavily, caressing him and finding the babe's precious heartbeat against her hand. "I know," she crooned. "I know, my sweet. You're all right. It's all right, we're safe now."

Vincent worked fast; cutting the umbilical cord, wiping the child off around Catherine's eager hands, and then wrapping him in the soft blue blanket that had obviously been set aside just for that purpose. He carefully removed her shaking legs from the stirrups, and then helped Catherine lift him into her weak arms where she immediately began rocking her son, and his cries quieted.

"God," she breathed, "he's perfect." Her eyes roved the rosy pink of his skin, the thick matting of blonde hair on top of his head, his ten perfect little fingers and ten perfect little toes, and the bright blue eyes that searched the bright room voraciously.

Vincent moved beside her, facing mother and son as he wiped his hands clean. Now that the ordeal was over, he watched them with a desperate curiosity and need for answers. But, he couldn't bring them even to his lips; they were squashed immediately by the wondrous sight of Catherine with her newborn child in her arms. He tried to curb the jealousy and want, but they rose with infinite strength as she kissed the baby's soft forehead. "He's amazing," he breathed, all of his desires rushing out in the flood of those two small words.

Softly, gently, her breathing calming now, she smiled up Vincent, her gaze connecting with him, knowing everything in his mind and his heart in an instant. Her eager eyes made it back the babe in her arms, and she stroked his cheek with a single finger. "Hello," she rocked him. "Hello, my little miracle. Would you like to meet your father?" her gaze swept up to Vincent and he immediately stood straighter, nervous. She smiled at him, entreating him to come closer. "Vincent… come and meet your son."

"Catherine…" he gaped at her, but surprised himself by moving closer, "I… I can't…"

"He's yours, Vincent," she assured quickly, smiling at him and then the precious bundle in her arms. "He's your son. He's _ours_… just ours!" she grasped his hand as he moved closer, and pulled him tight into the clump.

Vincent's lips worked into a smile of disbelief. He studied the sincerity in Catherine's face, and then took in the perfection of the little boy cradled against her. Somehow, he knew… he just knew that the boy was his. They were connected. Even now, Vincent could hear the child's heartbeat drumming beside his own. "I don't understand," he searched her now. "How…"

The doorknob was suddenly being struggled with from the other side, and a jingling sound followed it. Catherine's head snapped up, and her eyes, wide and fearful were glued to the door as she pulled her son tighter against her. "He's here," she breathed in terror, and suddenly began trying to push the baby into Vincent's unwilling arms. "Take him! Take him, Vincent! Go! Run!" she was yelling, tears beginning to take form again.

"No," Vincent backed away from her, breathing heavily and preparing himself, his gaze never wavering from the door. "Not without you."

"Please, Vincent," she begged, the newborn beginning to cry along with her. "He wants the baby! Please, just go!"

"I won't leave without you, Catherine!" he insisted, the muscles throughout his body clenching and releasing in anticipation. The distinct sound of metal on metal reached them, and the lock on the door turned slowly. "Be sure that you stay out of the way," he whispered to her, and then began growling at the opening door.

It swung open, and true enough, her captor stood in the doorway, a guard at his shoulder with a gun pointed directly at Vincent, who snarled at the threatening pair. Catherine sobbed, her face contorted in utter fear as she clutched her baby close and watched the gun advancing on her beloved. Her captor moved swiftly, hardly a hesitation, and a calm smile of fascination gracing his face. "So, you've come for her."

"No," Catherine squirmed in the chair, trying to push herself farther away. The babe was fussing, soft cries beginning to make their way past the blanket, and she tightened her hold when her captor's gaze swung around to him.

"My son…" he took a step toward them, but Vincent was faster and he blocked them, exposing his teeth, a promise of death in his eyes. The gun clicked into the ready position, and Catherine gasped, but Vincent gave none of his attention to it. Her captor grinned at the creature before him. "We are alike, you know. If we were not, how could I even begin to think that I could raise him as my own? We are mirror images, you and I. It's just that one of us has a slightly distorted mirror." He released a laughing breath as Vincent shifted, his snarling deeper and more terrible now. "What's the difference whether you or I claim him? Our instructions will be identical. Look," he spread his arms wide, confidently, "look at what we are teaching him, together, right at this moment."

Vincent's gaze flickered around the room, taking in their situation; the two of them squared off, threatening death; neither intended for the other to leave the room alive. "Catherine," her name came out like a soft growl, and he watched her captor revel in the sound of his voice, "move. Get out of the way."

Carefully, she forced her shaking limbs to support her as she slid out of the chair. She held onto it with her free arm for a moment, her weak legs trying to give out. When they were finally in her control, she backed quickly into the corner of the wall, farther away, but still well hidden behind Vincent. Beside her was a rolling cart with medical instruments laid out that the nurse had knocked out of the way in her retreat. Praying that none of them saw, she slid a hand out and carefully pulled a blade from the disarray of equipment.

"I was right," her captor suddenly addressed her, and she started, shifting her glance to see Vincent move and block her better, "there is nothing like the passion of a lover. Can you smell it?" he inhaled heavily, making a show of it. "Taste it? Passions end in ruin, though," his gaze came back to Vincent. "Passions take over and make mistakes. All those critical errors over the centuries; all caused by passion. Tell me… what will your ruin be?"

They watched each other, their breathing synced, and the whole world pausing to see what would happen next. The babe coughed, choking on his cries. Swiftly, before anyone saw it coming, Vincent raised one powerful arm and caught the captor's head. His claws sunk deep into the man's neck as he threw him against the nearest wall. The gun sounded and Vincent's left side recoiled in response.

"NO!" Catherine screamed as the child in her arms wailed in fear with newfound vigor.

Vincent came up sharply and immediately attacked his assailant, pouncing on him, and twisting his neck with one hand while his other sunk into the guard's chest. His passionate sounds of revenge permeated the walls, and mixed easily with Catherine's sobbing and their child's cries.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Catherine saw her captor on his feet and rushing toward her, some manic insanity in his eyes. She spun evasively so that the babe was between herself and the wall. He fell into the corner, almost on top of her, the wet blood from his injury dripping on her shoulder, and she screamed as she tried to push him off. But, he regained strength quickly, and grabbed her blood soaked shoulder, spinning her around, already reaching for the precious child in her arms. She cried out, and they both froze, rigid and staring at each other in shock. Vincent was there quickly, his claws sinking into the back of the man's neck, blood spraying on the wall above Catherine's head, and then tossed him aside, far away from the mother and child.

The scalpel fell from her hand slowly, clattering on the tiled floor and staining it with fresh blood. Catherine panted, shaking, her red-soaked hand still held out in its defensive gesture. "Are you hurt?" Vincent searched her.

She shook her head, fighting to gain some control over her breath. She watched him heave a relieved sigh, and then clutch at his side as he fell back against the wall beside her. "Vincent?" she gripped the shoulder closest to her and struggled to see his face. He was sweating and shaking as badly as she was. "We have to go," she pulled on him weakly. "We have to get Below."

Vincent shook his head, "You shouldn't move. It's too soon."

"You need help!" she insisted. He refused her again, and she balled her fist into his vest. "We _both_ need a doctor! Please, Vincent? Get us out of here," she appealed to his sense of duty to her. "Take me home… please?"

He studied her carefully, his ocean blue on her sea of green, and then finally pushed himself to standing. He hooked an arm around her, pulling her against his uninjured side, the crying babe nestled in the space between them, and quieting suddenly. They stumbled out of the terrible, bright room together, giving and taking support from each other equally.

The unit barely made it into the closest passage, under an old warehouse, a block away. They nearly fell down the steps, and ended up sliding together onto the soft sand under the entrance. Vincent whispered for Catherine to stay put, and pulled himself up, walking his hands along the wall until he found a rock and a piece of pipe. Catherine closed her eyes and smiled as he began tapping out their distress call. It sounded like music, floating, swaying her, lulling her. She wanted to sleep. She hadn't slept in nearly 20hours. The passage smelled so wonderful, like home; dirt and rock and water mixing at their height and descending around her, blanketing her.

Vincent fell back to the ground beside her, and she leaned into his good side while his arm held her close. "They're coming," he whispered to her. "We're safe. You're safe now." She nodded, the truth in his words settling softly in her chest, making it swell with emotion. The baby in her arms stirred and began crying anew.

"He's hungry," they whispered together, both sets of eyes falling on the miraculous little life between them. They both knew that it would use strength that Catherine didn't necessarily have to give, but there was no denying the hungry babe. Carefully and precisely; both of them suddenly aware of the amount of blood, sweat, and fluids that Catherine and her once-white gown were drenched in; she and Vincent adjusted the gown to fall off of her shoulder, and she pulled her son higher so that he could reach her breast. Catherine and her son struggled for a few moments until the boy finally understood where his nourishment was coming from, and he latched onto her breast with what seemed to be an insatiable need. Catherine's head fell back onto Vincent's shoulder, her heavy eyes trying to close, and she fighting them as he placed a warm, fervent kiss on her forehead.

Twin stretchers and a horde of dwellers arrived at their aide within minutes. Catherine had dozed off a few times, but woke groggily with the flurry of movement and cries of joy from her friends, her family at her return. She panicked when someone, she couldn't even see who, tried to take the child from her breast, clutching at him, her terror startling all of them, and then a sadness for her settling around them as Lena knelt by her side and whispered her assurance that she would keep the babe beside her, and within the terrified mother's reach, at all times.

In the medical chamber, Catherine was treated for her blood loss and bathed thoroughly, the clean shift she was put in felt like the softest downy against her sensitive skin. The bullet in Vincent's side was removed and he was stitched and bandaged quickly, heavy quilts tucked around him for fear of infection and sickness from exposure to the cold. The baby boy was passed between Father's volunteer staff with the utmost care, as if he were some porcelain doll they were suddenly gifted with. He was bathed, his nose and throat passages cleared further, and wrapped again in a new woven tunnel blanket. Father stole the child and recorded his weight and length as quickly as he could before placing the tiny boy in the cradle, offered by Kanin and Olivia, close to Catherine's bedside. The new mother spared an arm from her blanket and placed it carefully in the cradle, resting her fingers against her son's intricate little ear. Slowly, her gazed drifted up to meet Vincent's in the next bed; his heavy eyes taking in the sight of her and his son, so peaceful and safe beside him.

"I love you," he vowed, his gaze intense and focused just for that moment.

"I love _you_," she whispered back, and then let her eyes drift closed.

* * *

**"Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight **

**Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, **

**Rage, rage against the dying of the light. **

**And you, my father, there on the sad height, **

**Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. **

**Do not go gentle into that good night. **

**Rage, rage against the dying of the light."**


	13. Epilogue Alternate

_**Epilogue**_

"Found you!" the toddler below squealed with delight.

From the passage high above the falls, Father had been watching Catherine sitting beside the shores of the lake. Her careworn face had been upturned, watching the waterfall, but she had never seen Father. Now, she spun in her spot on the sand, a nervous lurch in her body at being startled, but it relaxed immediately. Vincent walked slowly toward her, his cloak drawn around him with only two tiny hands peeking out of the folds.

"_I_ found _you_!" Catherine called back over the sounds of the falls, a smile in her voice.

"Nuh-uh!" the little boy called back from behind the cloak. "I hidin'! You can't see me! Papa too. You hidin', Papa?" he called up to his father.

"Yes, Jacob," Vincent lied with a grin to Catherine. "Mama can't even see who I am." The child giggled hysterically, the cloak swaying and pulling in his excitement.

Father watched Vincent move closer, and then pull the cloak open, revealing the three-year-old, standing on his father's feet, his little fists balled in the cloak, hanging on so that he didn't fall. His wild, curly blonde hair stuck out in every direction, and his smile shone bright even from where Father watched.

"Jacob Charles," Catherine sighed and laughed simultaneously, "what in the world is all over your face?"

"Booberies!" he proclaimed, jumping off of his father's feet and dashing into his mother's arms.

"Blueberries, huh?" she pronounced precisely for her child as he pounced in her lap, wrapping his arms and legs around her. "And where did you get those blueberries?"

"William!" he nodded and pronounced the name meticulously.

Vincent took off his cloak and dropped onto the beach beside them, watching Catherine wrap Jacob fiercely close, and kiss his head. "Did you say 'thank you', Jacob?"

"Mm-hm!" the toddler nodded, explaining mostly to his mother in all his excitement. "I said _real_ loud, like this; 'THANK YOU!'" he demonstrated, making his parents wince at his shrill baby-voice.

"That's great," Catherine praised, blinking away the ringing in her ears. "Why don't you go wash your face off in the water, okay?"

Jacob nodded, rolling off of her lap with all of his energy and enthusiasm, and bounding happily toward the little lake. Vincent moved in, kissing Catherine tenderly, and then setting his forehead against hers. Father watched them carefully, studying them. This year had been strangely hard on her. She seemed to see ghosts in every shadow. She hardly let Jacob leave her sight, and when he did, she preferred for him to be within Vincent's sight at least. He had broached the subject, gently, with Vincent, and all his son had given him was the vague explanation of haunting dreams and old fears from her captivity. Father worried, watching his little grandson taking on some of that fear from the mother he adored. The child was often found hiding in wardrobes and under blankets. He feared nothing more than strangers; any new helpers or dwellers were welcomed, not with the beautiful child of Vincent and Catherine but, with the imitation of a frightened monkey, climbing up and clawing at his mother to get away from any newcomers. Catherine didn't seem to worry or disapprove of her child's behavior, either. Instead, she rewarded, almost encouraged it. For some reason, Father always suspected, Catherine didn't truly believe that their ordeal was over.

The investigation into the men who had kidnapped her was inconclusive at best. Only a select few of Catherine's friends had been contacted and told that she had survived the mysterious attack on the building; Joe Maxwell being one of them. He agreed that she should be kept as hidden as possible until they were absolutely sure that the crime ring connected to her disappearance had been thoroughly investigated and put behind bars. He refused any knowledge of her whereabouts, so as to keep her safe, and told each messenger not to reveal her to anyone else until the danger had passed. That was three years prior, and Catherine's paranoia had only grown in the time that she kept herself buried in the earth of New York City.

"Don't wander too far in, Pip!" Catherine called to the little boy as he kicked and splashed in the shallow area of the lake.

"Jacob, did you hear your mother?" Vincent reprimanded when the child gave no acknowledgement.

"Yes, Mama!" Jacob yelled back, laughing all the while. The boy stopped suddenly, his smile dropping quickly. Cautiously, he began backing out of the lake, watching a far-away entrance.

"Jacob?" Catherine sat up nervously, glancing between her son and the archway that his eyes were glued to. Shadows began dancing just inside, bouncing off of the rock, coming closer. The child dashed back up the beach and promptly climbed into his mother's lap, tucking himself into her chest. She wrapped her arms tightly around the boy, even as Vincent tilted his head this way and that, calmly examining the oncoming shadows.

"It's all right, son," Vincent soothed, not just the boy, but Catherine as well. Her tension was palpable and the child in her arms was shaking. "It just looks like Lucy," he assured them, and when the young woman did indeed emerge into the chamber, he waived to her. "You remember Lucy, Jacob. You've met her three times now."

Catherine breathed, her nerves calming, and rubbing her child's back, assuring him now as well. "It's okay, Jacob. Look; it _is_ Lucy. Look, sweetheart." But, Jacob shook his head, still buried in her chest.

The young woman bounded up to them, all smiles, a beach towel slung over her shoulder, and a bag in her hand. "Hi Vincent, Catherine," she greeted them in turn and they returned the greeting. Lucy tilted her head and stared at the tiny blonde toddler, resolutely tucked into his mother. "Hi, Jacob," she called softly, a hopeful tone apparent in her sweet voice.

The child didn't respond, and Catherine ran her fingers through his hair, sweeping it away from his face. "Jacob, can you say hello?" All three adults watched him, waiting until he shook his head again, taking handfuls of her shirt in his fists.

"I'm not all that scary, am I Jacob?" Lucy sunk low and searched for his eyes. Quickly, she reached in her bag and pulled out a piece of candy. "Look," she held it out to him. "Do you want a blow-pop? I've got an extra one."

Jacob's little head shifted, the promise of candy trying to override his fear. He gave a quick glance to the lollipop in her hand, and then his eyes swung up to his mother, questioning her with his perfect blue eyes.

Catherine kissed his forehead and smiled. "Go ahead if you want it, Pip."

The boy licked his lips and looked at the candy, nervously, never having the courage to look at Lucy. Carefully, he detached from Catherine and took the lollipop, making sure not to touch Lucy in the process. As soon as the prize was in his hand, he fell back into his mother's chest, and she hugged him close.

"Well," Lucy smiled, a little sad, and still studying the shy little boy, "it's better than him hiding under your cloak the whole time like the last time I saw him," she glanced at Vincent and then Catherine.

"Jacob, your manners," Vincent was already in the midst of a lesson. "What do you say?"

The boy squirmed, and Catherine rubbed his back quickly, vigorously for a moment. "You heard your father, Jacob. What do you say?"

The child mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'thank you'. It certainly was not the 'thank you' he had demonstrated that he was capable of earlier, and his parents exchanged quick glances over him.

Father turned away as the little family began chatting with Lucy. He gathered himself and made his way back toward the hub. He prayed that one day Catherine would conquer her own fears so that she might be able to help her son do the same in turn. He prayed that Vincent would learn a balance between indulging her in her frailty, and showing her that the world was not plotting against her. No one who knew Catherine well denied her those times of frailty; she had earned it. She was a survivor, and had been so many times that everyone was more than willing to coddle her occasionally. But little Jacob; he had time yet to learn and become. The child did indeed have the makings of a very strong person, so like his parents, and Father prayed the child could rise above his circumstances as his father had never been allowed to.

Tuesday's child is full of grace.

* * *

Quotes are from:

Dylan Thomas- "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

Dylan Thomas- "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"

F. Scott Fitzgerald- "The Great Gatsby"

William Shakespeare- "Much Ado About Nothing"

William Shakespeare- "Hamlet"

William Shakespeare- "Macbeth"

William Shakespeare- "Sonnet #11"

Rainer Maria Rilke- "Letters To A Young Poet"

Unknown- "Monday's Child"


End file.
